Tag: failure

When It Goes Right

As I strode up to home plate, memories flooded my mind.

Memories of the last time I’d dug into a batter’s box.

It was a couple games ago, on a baseball field 25 miles away. I had been summoned off the bench as a pinch hitter. And everything seemed to be moving at a million miles a minute.

I took a couple of pitches, with the umpire calling one a strike. Then I slashed a ball into foul territory.

I was down to my last strike. And I was terrified of looking like a fool in front of my teammates.

So, as the next pitch came in, I left the bat on my shoulder. It spun toward the outermost edge of home plate, landing with a dull thud in the catcher’s mitt.

Strike three, the umpire shouted. I made the short walk back to the dugout, all semblance of self-confidence extinguished.

So, as I dug into the batter’s box for this delayed second chance, I had just one objective.

Don’t strike out looking.

The pitcher wound up and hurled the baseball. It bounced in the dirt several feet to the outside of home plate.

I smirked. No one was going to swing at that. Not even me.

Still, now was no time to get cocky. With a pitch that bad, who knew where the next one was going?

So, I zoned in. I stared intently at the pitcher as he prepared his next offering.

It sailed toward the upper part of the strike zone. A bit away from my body, but still reachable.

I took a swing and felt my bat connect with the ball. Then I watched the ball head straight toward the second baseman.

He leaped, and my heart sank. Another at bat was about to go to waste.

But a funny thing happened on the way to despair. The ball kept rising over the second baseman’s outstretched glove, before dropping to the ground in the outfield grass behind him.

I’d gotten a hit — the first of my high school baseball career.

As I stood on first base, my coach gave me a fist bump.

Good job. Now, stay focused.

I nodded. But this would prove to be an impossible task.

You see, I was still flabbergasted. I’d shown myself capable of close to nothing up in that one prior at bat. But somehow, I’d just peppered a humpback line drive into right field. What was happening?

The disbelief continued into the next game. Summoned off the bench yet again, I rolled a ground ball past an infielder’s lunging dive. I had another hit.

Now, I was 2 for 3 on the season. And technically I — the last guy on the depth chart — had the team’s highest batting average.

Where had this surge of success come from? And what was I to do with it?

I’ve spent more than half my life trying to figure that out.

Those three at bats were my final ones of organized baseball.

I tried out for the team again the next spring. But this time, I didn’t make it.

I none too surprised. There was a reason I was the last guy on the depth chart the season prior, after all.

Still, getting cut from the team exposed me to the rawness of reality. If baseball wasn’t going to be my future, I needed to figure out what would be.

That quest took several years. And even when I thought I had it figured, life had a few curveballs for me.

A recession. A career change. A layoff. Several drawn out job searches. And more than my fair share of work projects that didn’t yield the expected results.

After more than a decade of these occurrence, I’ve come to expect the worst. I might stride to the plate with the best of intentions, but I know that Strike Three call is coming.

So, when it doesn’t, I’m dumbfounded. I find myself frozen in my good fortune, unsure what to do next.

It might seem like a good problem to have. But it’s still a problem.

There’s a scene in the movie Talladega Nights that’s etched in my mind.

Main character Ricky Bobby is out to dinner with his sons and his parents at Applebee’s. It’s the first time in his life when the family is enjoying a restaurant meal together.

Suddenly, Ricky’s father — Reese — causes a commotion. He quickly gets kicked out of the restaurant.

When Ricky chases after his father, Reese explains that things were going too well for his liking. He caused a scene to find an escape.

I’m nowhere near as ornery as Reese Bobby. I’m not inclined to sabotage my success.

Still, I understand his perspective.

For a favorable outcome means little in the grand scheme of things. In a world that’s often cold and random, a glimmer of light is just a flash in the pan. It’s foolish to make anything more of it.

Yet, our world relies on us making more of it. On getting base hit after base hit. On going on a winning streak.

Life favors those who can handle success. The optimists. The dreamers. The charismatic.

The rest get left behind. And if I’m not careful, I will too.

Own your wins.

I share these words with my co-workers whenever they deflect the praise I send their way.

Modesty is considered a proper approach in professional settings. But it condemns far too many of my talented teammates to the shadows. So I break through its defenses, time and agein.

But when it’s time for me to step into the limelight, I tend to resist. Why bask in the glory of something that I can’t explain or knowingly replicate? Why search for meaning in the meaningless?

After all, the struggles I’ve endured – the challenges, the failings – they matter far more. That’s what I’ve told myself for years.

Lately though, I’ve started to change my tune.

I’ve come to recognize that the narrative of a realist is anything but a best seller. The community around us will only be regaled in the woe of dead ends if there’s some hope on the horizon.

My wins – spurious as they may seem – provide that hope. They make my story palatable to others. Others who might, in turn, open the door to more opportunities.

So, I’m taking my own advice. I’m accepting my successes for the mysteries they are. I’m owning my wins.

I don’t know if my new approach will yield me more favorable outcomes. But one can hope.

And for the first time in a long time, I am.

Failing vs. Failure

What does it mean to fail?

Probably not as much as you think.

There is a stigma out there against failing. A common narrative that those who fail are not worthy of our praise and attention.

This stigma makes it seem as if there is only one viable option in life — succeeding. That failing is the worst thing that can happen to us.

It’s a silly proposition, really. All you need to do is crack open a history book to see that some of the world greatest success stories failed repeatedly before finding their glory.

Thomas Edison might be renowned for inventing the light bulb. But he also spearheaded a bunch of other inventions that didn’t make it.

Michael Jordan redefined professional basketball. But before that, he got cut from his varsity team in high school.

Even Abraham Lincoln — the honest, even-keeled man who led America through some of its most tumultuous years — lost his first political election.

Failing early on did not derail these legendary figures of history. If anything, it helped fuel their later success.

Why? Because they knew the difference between failing and being a failure.

 

It’s a seemingly minor difference. A shift of three little letters. But the gap between failing and failure is anything but inconsequential.

One term defines the experience of missing the mark. The other lets that experience define you.

The shift from failing to failure has nothing to do with our innate skills. It has nothing to do with our finely-tuned talents. It has nothing to do with our ability to execute.

But it has everything to do with what lies between our ears.

You see, to err is human. Even as we doggedly chase perfection, we recognize it’s more nirvana than reality.

We fall on our face dozens of times as we learn how to walk. We strike out our fair share in Little League as we learn to knock it over the fence. We get questions wrong in class as we learn what exactly it is we do not yet know of.

These failings are part of an iterative process. They’re the journey to an uncertain destination, the steps to a yet unknown summit.

But only if we allow them to be.

We might not be able to control the outcome. But we can surely control our outlook.

As a noted control enthusiast in a chaotic world, I’ve long maintained that we have control over exactly two things — our attitude and our effort.

Managing this properly is key to succeeding after failing.

Many of the world’s greatest success stories took their failings and owned them. But they didn’t let missing the mark define them.

No, they had the confidence to be resilient in the face of adversity. They had the courage to try a little harder, dig a little deeper and dream a little bigger.

This process took them to new heights. It can even be said that failing helped drive their ultimate triumph.

So, it certainly appears that failing is not quite as awful as we make it seem.

Failure? Well, that’s a different story.

I am afraid of many irrational things. Chief among them is mud. (It’s a long story.)

But one of the most rational fears I have is a fear of failure.

I say this not because of my perfectionist tendencies or introverted nature. For despite those traits, I do not shy away from the opportunity to fail.

No, my fear of failure lies at a deeper level. It indicates that I’ve thrown in the towel, and given up on myself.

I don’t want to see that ever happen. Not once.

For accepting failure at face value is like closing a jailhouse door. It confines us and limits our potential.

This is far worse than failing, time and again. Branding ourselves as failures is like putting the final nails in our own coffin.

Branding ourselves a failure goes beyond being risk-averse. It means barricading ourselves from any avenue toward future success. It means sitting in the corner and feeling sorry for ourselves for eternity. It means simply taking up space, instead of making a difference in the world.

I don’t want to face this fate. That’s why I’m driven to give my all each and every day.

It’s why I continue to make bold moves where it’s pertinent. It’s why I remain encouraged by my small failings now and then — knowing that the bitter pill of today will only serve to make tomorrow sweeter.

Yes, my failure sustains me. It drives me and keeps me humble. It inspires me and balances me.

It’s a gift bestowed upon me. One that I am oh so thankful for.

If recognition is half the battle, let these words serve as a wake-up call.

It’s time we differentiate between failing and failure. And that we stop stigmatizing the former in accordance with the latter.

For while they may sound about the same, these terms are light years apart.

One is a powerful tool in our development. And another is the architect of our own demise.

We are foolish and shortsighted to paint these concepts with such a broad brush. By doing so, we limit our contributions to the world. We become sheep not lions.

We’re better than this. Deep down we know it.

Now, it’s time to show it.

Let’s embrace failing. But let us not accept failure.

Don’t Punt

When I was a teenager, I spent many a Friday night playing Madden with my friends.

(Madden, for those who don’t know, is a video game simulation of the National Football League.)

And whenever we played, we made sure to follow one particular rule: Don’t Punt.

Why? Because only wimps punt in Madden.

This, of course, is ridiculous. Punting — or dropkicking the ball down the field to pin your opponent close to their own goal line — is an odd quirk of football. But it’s also a strategic one.

In fact, teams with weak offenses and dominant defenses use punting as a strategic advantage — as it can be difficult for opponents to score points when they need to go the length of the football field to it. The 2000 Baltimore Ravens even won a Super Bowl championship with this formula.

But punting is unacceptable in Madden. It’s part of guy code. Which is also the code that demands that a man leave a one urinal buffer between himself and the next guy while relieving himself in a public restroom.

(And yes, I do realize there are plenty of female gamers out there today. But this Madden tradition goes back to when video games were “a guy thing.”)

So, we never punted in Madden. Instead, we gave each other short fields when our offense sputtered. We scored a lot of points. We had a grand old time.

Then, when the game was over, we turned off the console, went to the kitchen and downed glasses of Cola-Cola.

Of course, life’s nothing like Madden. It ain’t a game, it ain’t always fun, and you can’t just turn it off at the end. (It does, however, feature bountiful amounts of Coca-Cola.)

But I do think the Don’t Punt rule should still apply to life.

Why? Because off the gridiron, punting is not a strategic advantage. It’s bailing out, giving up, abandoning ship.

It’s acknowledging that something didn’t work — and cutting all ties with it in that same instant.
I get why people do this. Sometimes it’s just better to have a fresh start than to let a poor experience weigh you down like a boulder.

But still, it’s incredibly shortsighted.

You see, I’m a firm believer that something can be gained from every experience we encounter in our lives. But we have to go out and seize those lessons and that silver lining.

Punting doesn’t allow us to do this. It shuts out an initiative that didn’t go to plan, effectively expunging it from our life story.

While it’s more comfortable for us to face failure this way, punting away our misses leaves a silent trail of collateral damage. All of the effort, time and heart that was poured into an experience is lost forever — and those losses compound over time. This can lead to “Golden Years” pockmarked with emptiness and anchored by regret.

It’s far better to pivot than to punt. Pivoting ensures continuity between one venture and the next. It allows us to build off of our prior experiences — good or bad — and create a future that’s continually vibrant and well informed.

This is a worthy goal to strive for. And all we need to achieve it is the right mindset.

So, when you fail, take a moment. Collect yourself. Then, get up and dust yourself off.

But whatever you do, don’t punt.

Holding Back

There’s this thing that Seth Godin does nearly every time he delivers a keynote.

At some point, he’ll ask the everyone in the audience to raise their right hand, as high as they can.

When everyone has complied, he asks the following:

“Now raise it higher.”

Invariably, most of the audience will lift their arm another inch or so in the air. This leads Godin to muse, “Mmm, what’s that about?”

Of course, that’s the point. The exercise serves as visual proof of our propensity to hold a little bit back.

But while Godin goes on to explain how this thinking is a remnant of industrialized society — where we’re taught to leave a bit in reserve in the event someone asks us for more — I think our tentative tendencies go even further.

I think we hold a bit back as a means of self-preservation.

You see, for as much as we idolize those who “go all out,” we’re inherently fearful of the potential dangers that are unlocked by a full effort.

Sure, I could run as fast and as hard as I could, all the time, but then I might blow out my Achilles tendon. And if that happens, how will I get down the stairs? How will I get to work? How will I drive to the supermarket to pick up groceries?

Better to play it safe by holding back.

And this is not just a physical phenomenon. We hold a little back when formulating ideas or supporting causes, all because of the chance we might fail. What we champion might not work or be fully accepted — and if that happens, we better have an exit strategy if we want any chance of saving face.

So yes, holding back is a crucial construct for acceptance and protection. It’s as essential as the governor in a car or the blowout preventer on an oil rig; it shields us from the dangers of flying too close to the sun.

But while there might be valid reasons for avoiding full throttle, must we hold back so much? Protecting ourselves from grave danger is one thing. Insulating ourselves from any sign of disappointment is another.

While we might not like it when things don’t go our way, we must be willing to take some chances. We must summon the courage to give a little more, to devote ourselves something that might not work out.

We shouldn’t be reckless, of course. But we shouldn’t short-circuit our potential on account of our fears either.

After all, life is defined by experiences. And shielding ourselves in a bubble is not living.

So, let’s not permit “What if” block us from exploring “What is.” Let’s open our hearts and our minds to the world.

It’s time to stop holding back.