An inspirational quotation, based on John F. Kennedy’s quip after the unsuccessful Bay of Pigs invasion, relates that “success has a thousand fathers and failure is an orphan.” In other words, plenty of people are eager to take credit for the good while being just as eager to disown the blame. And it’s hard to blame them, since failure brings with it a measure of shame that’s hard for even the most self-confident person to embrace. But failure can actually be the best thing to happen to us—if we are humble enough to learn from it. Instead of dodging failure, we might get farther by welcoming it.
Have you ever had a day when life flies by on easy mode?
Here’s how I imagine it going. Everything comes without effort, with no friction whatsoever. The day just breezed by on cruise control. It probably felt pretty good. Maybe there were even high-fives exchanged when it was all over.
The first time, it probably felt like an accomplishment: “Wow, I actually had a day with no major problems. I could get used to this.” But once the novelty wears off, a day on easy mode might feel boring or even demoralizing, as we feel our skills, with the absence of a challenge to sharpen them against, begin to dull, and easy mode no longer feels like such a blessing.
By contrast, when things don’t go so smoothly, when we are rubbing up against the edge of comfort, we can feel energized. We rise to a challenge. While it doesn’t always feel good while we are under the fun, it is hard to deny how satisfying it feels when it’s all over. We might be glad it’s past us, but are more satisfied than if it had been just another layup.
Similarly, it is difficult to really learn or improve when everything comes easily. While gaining knowledge doesn’t have to be painful, a certain measure of resistance can help us by forcing us to think critically about what we are doing, which can boost understanding and enhance retention. Instead of just going through the motions, we can better appreciate why each step happens, which makes it easier to both think about the process abstractly and to apply it.
I have an example that hopefully demonstrates that it is sometimes better (and easier) to teach from a place of struggle than comfort. Way back in graduate school, I worked many jobs. One of the ones I remember most fondly is teaching SAT prep for The Princeton Review. As you might know, there are two halves to the SAT: verbal and math. As a student, I always did much better in verbal than math. Suddenly I found myself having to teach math to students who tended to be high achievers, many of whom were already taking more advanced high school courses than I ever did. I had real doubts about my ability to be an effective teacher to students who, quite honestly, probably were much better at math than me. Verbal was where I felt at ease, where I was confident that I could answer any question easily improve my students performance.
I was surprised to learn that my students considered me better at teaching math than verbal. While they didn’t know it, I was struggling myself and could point out from very recent experience exactly where the pitfalls were. In verbal, while I still was energetic and helpful, I didn’t see any of the material as particularly challenging, and had a harder time guiding my students who did.
Since then, I have found that I prefer to learn from those who don’t instinctively grasp the material, or who have been doing it so long that they forget the sheer terror of not knowing what to do.
In the same way, we tend to improve more reliably when we fail along the way. Failure is a great teacher for three reasons. First, it demonstrates the consequences of not knowing what to do: this is terrific motivation to avoid a recurrence. Second, failure helps us pinpoint exactly where we are lacking, where the weakest link in our chain of competence lies. This makes it that much easier to strengthen the link and improve. Finally, failure keeps us humble, which is both beneficial for our own well-being and a boon for relating with others. From my own experience, it was easy for me to empathize with my students having trouble with math because I had gone through the same thing and could walk them through the problem with no judgment or barriers.
Still, failure has that stigma around it that often prevents us from owning it. I’ll hazard a guess that social media has made it at least somewhat harder for us to publicly acknowledge our failures, because when everyone else appears to be living a life of success after success, we might feel that success is the norm and failure an invisible aberration. As an individual, carefully curating a flawless life story might seem like a strategy to stand out, but when we all do it, it’s just more of the same. But it builds up the pressure to show a face to the world that has never known disappointment or distress.
I’d like to imagine a world where, instead, failure is normalized and, if not celebrated, at least accepted as a natural part of lifelong learning. I am reminded of an older academic who bragged to me that he had submitted over a hundred articles over the course of his career—I’m fuzzy on the exact number, but he was precise—and had never been rejected. Inwardly I just thought that he wasn’t submitting to very selective journals. Maybe that was me rationalizing my own less-than-flawless record, but I am proud to say that I’ve been rejected by journals, because it means I was willing to risk it, and ultimately the rejection made for a better article in a more suitable home.
I’m having fun considering what would happen if, next time someone asks me how it’s going, I lead with my latest setback rather than triumph. I’ll be honest—I’m probably not going to do it unless it is someone I trust very well, but maybe if a few of us start being more open about where we’ve failed, we’ll realize that we all have something in common, which might bring us closer.
So until next time, expect the unexpected, stay informed, and I’ll stay informal.
30
