Failure and I are on a first-name basis. We’ve shared cramped apartments, empty bank accounts, rejected job applications, rejected book drafts, and one unforgettable chili recipe that turned into a chemical weapon. We’ve cried together. We’ve yelled at each other. But eventually, I realized failure isn’t my enemy. It’s the weird, brutally honest life coach I never asked for — but desperately needed.
I used to be terrified of failing. Like, losing sleep, white-knuckle everything, overachieve-to-compensate terrified. Because when you grow up like I did — kicked out as a teen, surviving trauma, constantly having to prove your worth — failure feels like confirmation of what you were always afraid was true: that you weren’t good enough to begin with. That the world already expected you to fall apart. That if you mess up, no one’s going to catch you.
So, I spent most of my early adulthood trying to stay two steps ahead of failure. I got degrees, I got promotions, I got good at being fine. I polished my trauma into funny stories. I held jobs that drained me, relationships that broke me, and friendships that fed on my fear of being alone. And still, failure found me. It always does. Life has a flair for humbling us when we least expect it — preferably in public and preferably while we’re holding something fragile.
Take my career shift, for example. From nurse to hotel GM — not exactly a linear trajectory. But I didn’t pivot because I had a grand vision. I pivoted because I hit a wall. Healthcare was chewing me up. I was exhausted, disillusioned, and deeply, dangerously unhappy. I failed at being okay. And thank god I did. Because that failure forced me to reimagine who I was allowed to be.
Or when I went through cancer treatment — another kind of failure, the bodily betrayal kind. My throat, my energy, my ability to taste food, to smell, to be the energetic fixer I had always been — gone or changed overnight. And I had no choice but to sit with it. No fixing, no faking. Just being. That failure stripped everything down to what was essential. It reminded me that survival is enough. That slowing down isn’t weakness. That vulnerability isn’t failure — it’s evidence you’re still trying.
And then there are the quiet, ridiculous failures — the blog post that tanked, the passive-aggressive email I sent too fast, the attempt at banana bread that somehow turned into banana soup. These don’t end careers, but they bruise your ego. And honestly, that’s its own kind of gift. Because ego will lie to you all day long. Failure won’t. It’s a mirror you can’t avoid.
I used to think success was what made you strong. Now I know it’s how you show up after failure that defines your power. Success is a highlight reel. Failure is the full documentary, bloopers included. And I’ve learned way more from the bloopers than the perfectly lit scenes.
Here’s what failure has taught me so far — and maybe it’ll help you too.
1. You’re not special — and that’s good.
Everyone fails. The barista who forgot your name. The CEO who tanked a quarter. The artist who never got picked up. The friend who ghosted you and felt guilty. It’s universal. When you realize that, you stop making failure mean something about you and start seeing it as something that just happens. Repeatedly. To everyone.
2. Feedback is fertilizer.
Yes, it stinks. Yes, you might cry. But whether it’s a failed relationship, a rejected pitch, or a “we regret to inform you,” there’s almost always something you can learn. Maybe it’s that you need better boundaries. Maybe it’s that you weren’t ready. Maybe it’s just that someone else had a different vision. Doesn’t mean you’re unworthy. Just means you’ve got more growing to do. And I’m always growing — sometimes sideways, sometimes upside down, but growing nonetheless.
3. Failure clarifies what matters.
When everything falls apart, the noise goes quiet. You stop chasing applause. You stop trying to impress people you don’t even like. You remember who showed up, who stayed. And most importantly, you remember what still makes you feel like you. For me, it’s writing. Laughter. Late-night talks with Matthew. A good rerun of Pose. Long walks with Daisy. These things don’t care if I succeed or fail. They just exist. And they make it worth trying again.
4. Risk becomes easier.
Once you fail publicly — and survive — the fear of trying starts to shrink. You realize you can lose things and still keep your essence. You can rebuild. Reinvent. Get rejected and still be loved. And the more you stretch that muscle, the less terrifying it is to try something new. Like asking someone out. Starting over. Moving cities. Writing about your trauma. Or saying, “I don’t know, but I’m learning.”
5. Perfection is a liar.
I chased perfection like it was salvation. Spoiler alert: it’s not. It’s just another form of control, and control is fear with a makeover. The truth is, perfection is boring. What makes us magnetic — what makes us relatable — are the cracks. The awkward pauses. The failures that didn’t kill us. That’s the stuff that connects us, that makes someone lean in and say, “Same.”
I still fail. Regularly. Gloriously. I’ve just stopped making it a secret. Because failure isn’t shameful — hiding from it is. And if you’re out here fumbling, hurting, trying to start over — welcome. You’re doing it right.
The best part? You’re not starting from scratch. You’re starting from experience.
So next time you fall flat on your face, ask yourself: What did this teach me? What can I laugh about later? And who can I help because I’ve been here before?
That’s the quiet magic of failure. It doesn’t just shape who you are — it shapes who you get to help. Who you’ll lift. Who you’ll say “me too” to in their lowest moment. And that’s where the real success lives.
You don’t need to fear failure. You need to make it a friend. A messy, annoying, relentlessly honest friend who pushes you toward your most authentic life.
And honestly? I’ve had worse friends.