There’s a moment I recall vividly from my days managing a creative team. I’d posted a graphic designer role and within 48 hours, my inbox was flooded with over 200 applications. As I began reviewing them, I wasn’t prepared for what I found between the portfolios and CVs.

A father of three who’d been rejected 87 times in the past year. A mid-career designer whose entire department had been made redundant during the pandemic. A recent graduate with exceptional talent who couldn’t afford their rent. These weren’t just applications; they were people with stories that weighed heavily on me.

The truth about trauma-informed content is that it isn’t reserved for obvious crisis situations. It permeates the fabric of our everyday professional communications, often in places we overlook. And nowhere is this more evident than in the humble rejection email.

Even the tiniest bit of feedback can make a difference

Most of us have been on both sides of recruitment. We’ve crafted those awkward “thanks but no thanks” messages and we’ve received them. We know the standard templates: “We’ve selected a candidate whose experience more closely aligns with our requirements.” But what are we really saying?

Often, the honest version sounds more like: “Our applicant tracking system ranked you 47th and we only looked at the top five”, or “You’re actually overqualified and we fear you’ll leave within months.” Yet we hide behind well-worn phrases that ultimately chip away at candidates’ sense of self-worth.

I tried desperately to provide personalised feedback to every applicant for that designer role. I stayed late, worked weekends, and still couldn’t manage it for everyone. But what I discovered was that even minimal personalisation, a comment on their portfolio, an acknowledgement of a particular skill, was gratefully received.

One candidate wrote back: “This is the first rejection in months where I’ve felt seen as a person.”

What would trauma-informed rejection communications actually look like? They acknowledge reality without demeaning the applicant:

“Thank you for applying for the marketing role. We received over 200 applications and our initial screening process narrowed this to a shortlist based on specific keyword matches. While your background is impressive, your application wasn’t selected during this automated process. We encourage you to apply for future positions, particularly those requiring your depth of experience in content strategy.”

Or for someone overqualified:

“We appreciate your interest in our company. After reviewing your application, I see that your qualifications and salary expectations significantly exceed what this entry-level position can offer. Rather than waste your valuable time, we wanted to be upfront about this mismatch. We’d like to keep your details on file for senior positions that better utilise your expertise.”

These approaches don’t sugar-coat the situation, yet they preserve dignity. They acknowledge systemic realities without making the rejection personal.

Rejections have a cumulative psychological impact

The recruitment process has become increasingly dehumanised. We use algorithms to filter applications before human eyes ever see them. We send automated messages to save time. But at what cost? Each rejection lands in the inbox of someone who might be facing their tenth, fiftieth, or hundredth rejection that month.

When I think about the volume of applications I received for that single role, I’m reminded of the scale of the issue. If one position attracts hundreds of candidates, and only one person gets the job, that means hundreds receive rejections. Multiply that across thousands of employers, and you begin to understand the cumulative psychological impact on job seekers.

The cost of thoughtless rejection communications isn’t merely theoretical. Research shows that prolonged job searches and repeated rejections correlate with increased anxiety, depression and decreased self-efficacy.

These aren’t minor inconveniences; they’re significant mental health challenges that affect people’s entire lives.

Trauma-informed content isn’t about coddling applicants or avoiding difficult truths. It’s about communicating those truths in ways that acknowledge humanity and context. It’s recognising that our words have power, particularly when they reach someone in a vulnerable state.

If you’re responsible for hiring communications, consider reviewing your templates. Are they honest? Do they acknowledge systemic factors rather than implying personal deficiency? Could you build in elements of personalisation, even if limited?

The modern job market is tough enough without our communications adding unnecessary pain. Kindness isn’t merely a nice-to-have; it’s a professional responsibility. And honesty, delivered with care, is infinitely preferable to platitudes that ring hollow to both sender and recipient.