You ever notice how nobody really cares about your wins? Like, sure, they’ll clap politely, maybe even say “good job,” but that’s about it.
Now tell them how you bombed on stage, accidentally emailed your boss instead of your friend, or tried to parallel park in front of a crowded café and hit the curb three times. Suddenly, they’re all ears.
Failure has that magic. It makes people lean in.
I used to think failure was something to avoid at all costs. That the goal was to be flawless, to always land on your feet. But the older I get, the more I realize: failure is the fun part. It’s where life happens.
And not just because it’s funny (although it is), but because failure has a way of making us human. It strips away the pretenses and leaves you with something raw, real, and relatable.
I think about the first time I tried stand-up comedy. It was my dream—something I’d wanted for as long as I could remember. I idolized comedians like Chris Rock and Bill Hicks and thought, I could do that. I’m funny.
So, I signed up for amateur night. No preparation, no material. Just me, my ego, and a misguided belief that I’d charm my way through it.
Spoiler: I didn’t.
The lights were blinding. The crowd was silent. My face was burning, and my jokes—if you could even call them that—landed with the grace of a brick through a window.
It was brutal. The MC called me “brave,” which we all know is code for “you tried, bless your heart.”
I cried in my car on the way home.
But here’s the thing: I survived. And not only that—I told everyone about it. I relived that failure so many times, dissecting every cringe-worthy detail, that eventually, it stopped hurting. It became a story.
And not just any story—a great one.
The funny thing about failure is that it bonds us. Success can be intimidating, even alienating. But failure? That’s universal. It’s familiar.
When I tell people about bombing on stage, they don’t pity me. They laugh. They get it. And then they tell me their own story—about the time they tripped walking up to accept an award or mispronounced a word in front of a client.
It’s like a game of one-upmanship, but instead of showing off, you’re seeing who can admit to the most embarrassing thing.
It’s honest. It’s real.
And it’s a reminder that none of us have it all together, no matter how polished we look on the surface.
I used to think failure was an ending. A closed door. But now, I see it differently. Failure is just a pivot point. It’s a new angle, a chance to try again with better ideas.
It’s like that pottery story—the one where students were split into two groups. One group was told to make the perfect pot. The other group? Just make as many pots as possible.
The perfect pot group overthought every move. The quantity group? They just kept trying. And you know what? The best pots came from the people who failed the most.
That’s the thing about failure. It doesn’t just teach you resilience. It rewires your brain. It makes you better at seeing possibilities, at trying new things, at finding what works.
I think about all the failures I’ve had—bombed comedy gigs, business ideas that never took off, job interviews where I completely blew it. And you know what? Every single one of those failures gave me something.
A lesson. A story. A moment of connection.
That’s why I don’t shy away from failure anymore. I embrace it. I laugh at it. I lean into it because I know it’s not the end of the road. It’s just part of the journey.
So, the next time you mess up—whether it’s something small or something big—don’t hide from it. Tell someone. Laugh about it. Turn it into a story.
Because at the end of the day, failure isn’t what holds us back. It’s what pulls us together.
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