My Fear of Failure
When I was a teenager, I remember filling out a personality profile and identifying two things as my top two fears. Not sharks, not the dark, not terrorists. The two things were rape and failure. (And in a victim-blaming world, they go hand in hand.) I wanted to live a good and successful life. I wanted to live without fear that my efforts to be good, safe, and successful wouldn’t go in vain.
Eventually, my fear of rape dissipated, after it happened to me. I learned the coping strategies that so many women learn, and I learned the avoidance route and red flags to keep myself safe. But that’s another story.
I’ve yet to learn how to avoid failure.
When I was 16, I was accepted to a special joint-enrollment program at the University of West Georgia. I’d be able to do my last two years of high school and my first two years of college at the same time. I was so thrilled and proud of myself.
I failed miserably. Or so I thought for a long time. It was hard to adjust to dorm living. I had a crazy, vindictive roommate and I missed my privacy. I also struggled with the class schedule and felt tired all the time, and a lot of my cohort were spoiled brats whose behavior drove me nuts. I was lonely and stressed all the time, and my schoolwork suffered. I had terrible stomach pain that at one point put me in the hospital. And yet, I was willing to keep working.
I wasn’t given the chance. Halfway through my first semester, I was kicked out of the program. At the time, they scared my parents into pulling me out by saying that my grades were slipping and my record would never recover if I had even one misstep. But grades hadn’t come out yet. To this day, I have no idea why I was actually asked to leave.
I blamed myself for years for having failed. But I realize now that I didn’t fail. The program failed me. The program promised to help bright students succeed but failed to accommodate students who were struggling to adjust. And fact is, we all were. I learned later that many students were asked to leave the program. The program failed. Not me.
Failure is something for which we tend to blame ourselves too much. When your phone fails to turn on anymore, do you blame yourself? Do you wonder if you didn’t treat it well enough, if the universe has something against you? What’s more likely is that the phone, much like the program I mention, was old and broken. It failed you.
Recently, my life has changed a lot. I started a new career a few years ago, and I just made a big move for a new job. I let go of a lot of toxic friendships and jobs, and I’ve worked hard to grow as a professional and as a person. It took practice, but eventually I learned to stop characterizing everything that didn’t go “right” as a failure. Rather, I started seeing it as an open door. Workplace turned toxic? Seek the next adventure. Friend abused you? Clear your calendar to meet new people.
I won’t lie, I still have a fear of failure. But I no longer automatically blame myself when things “fail.” I’ve learned to assess what things are in my control, and what aren’t. Spoiler alert: most things are out of your control. And so circumstances sometimes get in your way, but it doesn’t mean that you have failed.
So, next time you feel like a failure, ask yourself one simple question: Did I do my best to pursue what I want? If you did, you really didn’t fail…you just didn’t have your desired outcome, and it’s time to look for the next door to open.
Rachel Wayne is a writer and artist based in Orlando, FL. She earned her master’s in visual anthropology from the University of Florida and runs the production company DreamQuilt. She is an avid aerial dancer and performance artist, and also dabbles in mixed-media. She writes nonfiction stories about herself and other awesome people, as well as essays on feminism, societal violence, mental health, politics, entrepreneurship, and whatever cultural topic strikes her fancy.
My Fear of Failure
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