When Failure isn’t Failure
For most of my life, failure has felt like failure. When I didn’t accomplish something that I had set as a goal, I called it a failure. Actually, I didn’t call it a failure in front of other people; I knew too much about human psychology to do that. Failure is a stepping stone to success! I had said that in my speeches, and intellectually I knew it to be true. What kind of motivational speaker would I be if I told my audience that I thought in black and white in my own life? Clearly, failing is better than never trying. Not reaching our goal the first time means we would be closer on our next attempt. I knew all the reasons not to call it failure, and yet…
Buddhism often speaks to the duality of things. Failure, not failure. I can hear a Buddhist teacher unfolding the parable.
Like so many of us, I felt I was failing on multiple levels. I was failing when I didn’t book as many speeches in a year as my speaking peers had. I was failing when I didn’t contribute as many insights as other board members seemed to contribute, or when I had questions that no one else was asking. I failed when I gave one less-than-brilliant speech, or when I was told by an editor that my essay wouldn’t be easy to sell. There were so many ways to fail. I was clearly failing by not staying as slender or as fit as I had in my thirties. I was failing when I lost friends; I was failing when I let go of others.
I am hard on myself, too hard. But many people are like me; they hold deeply embedded feelings of failure and they hold impossible standards for success. Even when we accomplish something special in our lives, we fail to celebrate or acknowledge the success because we have this specific feeling of falling short.
In today’s world, social media has given us an even greater tool for making comparisons. I don’t spend much time on social media, but when I do, I usually have at least a few moments of questioning whether I need to be doing more: more exercising, more networking, more social media! Is it any wonder people, especially young adults, feel like they are perpetually falling short? Most people in their twenties don’t have the jobs they dreamed about, they don’t have the same professional opportunities their parents had, and homeownership, which was a hallmark of financial stability for their parents, is still a decade away (and often made possible through the help of a relative). Augmenting the feeling of failure they may already be wrestling with is that their social feed makes them believe everyone else is ten steps ahead of them.
What are we measuring? What are we falling short of? We don’t even really know what we are comparing ourselves to. Likely an idealized, ever-changing idea of what it means to be successful. Likely something or someone that is based on fiction, not reality.
I have been unlearning. Unlearning is the process of becoming aware of the beliefs and habits I have absorbed over a lifetime and consciously beginning to unlearn them. I have unlearned decades of unhealthy thinking around my body. I have come to love my body as it is. Older, less muscular, less lean, but beautiful. To do this, I needed to confront the ideals I absorbed over a lifetime. Ideals like “thin and lithe are best.” Ideals like “only flawless skin is beautiful.” The belief that older women can’t be sexy or gorgeous. The ideals that our society holds about women’s physical appearance are stupid, soul-destroying, and dangerous. (This is a whole other blog post, but an example of my ability to unlearn a type of default thinking.) Once I recognized the beliefs I had internalized, I began to unlearn them. Over time I learned healthy, affirming ways of seeing myself.
A funny and powerful example of unlearning occurred this week. My book agent told me that my recently minted manuscript, Epiphany, is really good, he loves the writing, but it’s not a candidate for a major publishing house. Given the current challenges in publishing and the crowded genre of self-help, this wasn’t a total surprise. However gently his news was given, it still stung. I have been working on this book for years. I began the well-practiced journey into doubt, fear, and feelings of failure. The weight of the word failure began to wash over me. It is a powerful and oh-so-familiar place. In my head, I began to spin a tale of what this means. It means the project is a failure, it means I have wasted hundreds of hours of my life, it means I am not a writer. And then the kicker: it means I am not good enough. I can feel the defeating words coming so quickly. I am good at this. I am good at quickly and toxically naming all the ways of labeling failure and concluding I am not good enough. But I stop. I stop.
Some of the years of inner work begin to show themselves in my pivot of thinking. Perhaps the thousands spent in therapy are being put to concrete use, because my inner dialogue begins to shift. I am not a failure. “Don’t be silly, it’s one opinion, it’s one hurdle,” I say to myself. I haven’t failed. I have written a beautiful and insightful manuscript. I know this work has value, and I now need to find the right way to bring this to life. A small publishing house, self-publishing, a different perspective? All these possibilities present themselves to me in rapid succession. As I begin to think of possibility rather than going inward to self-recrimination, how beautifully my mind is creating possibilities. How different this is from my old thinking.
My new book is called Epiphany, and it follows some of my life’s greatest moments of growth and learning. Many of these moments emerge from a painful experience or bitter disappointment. It’s ironic, then, that the perceived rejection of a manuscript whose storyline is about insight, change, and possibility threw me into a tailspin of doubt. I need to reread the wisdom contained in these pages and walk the walk.
It’s been a week where I have been asked to practice the new skill of reframing failure and seeing possibility. I have always been so good at this in outward challenges in sport, while my inner challenges have been so much harder. And yet I see it now. I see how I have interrupted old thinking and am rebounding from a disappointment quickly. I have watched my husband, somewhat enviously, rebound from rejection at lightning speed. It may still take me a week, but I am learning to be gentle with myself. I know that failure is not failure, and I am finally living my own words.
Does failure have to be failure? I would love to hear from you about an experience you have had that challenged you to think of failure differently.
If you'd like, I can prepare a more polished “publish-ready” version too.