Embracing failure

Every Sunday at my church we have a spot called Church Family News. People can go to the front and tell the rest of the congregation about their good news. It could be how much they have improved after a long healing, a new baby to celebrate and pray for, or that a tooth fell out. (This is usually, but not always, the purview of those under the age of ten!)

Much of the time, it is children who have a certificate and/or medal that they have earned.

Now, I feel like I need to add a proviso at this point. I totally agree that kids should be encouraged for good behaviour, thanked for being kind or generous, and celebrated when they achieve a milestone. Every child deserves the best that we adults have; to be loved unconditionally. It is absolutely right to praise them for helping others and to recognise hard work and talent alike.

But what about when they fail?

My dad taught me a lot about that. After coming top of my class in a biology exam, after I finally backed down because he wouldn’t actually say that he would like to see my paper, and I proudly presented it to him, the first thing he said to me was, “Why didn’t you get this one right?” I learnt that day that it didn’t matter whether I was top of my class. Anything less than 100% was a failure.

Even as an adult, he still knew how to shame me. I once made the mistake of telling him that I had been busy cleaning the house before he arrived for a visit. He walked to the lounge door and ran his finger across the lintel. Rubbing the dust away he said, “You didn’t do a very good job.” That day, I learnt that nothing I did would ever be good enough.

NB: Dad and I have talked through all of this, and I am very aware of how much he loves me!

But is it any wonder that I have struggled with perfectionism all my life? Not only that, I demanded it from everyone else, too.

In order to protect myself, I would not engage with anything that I had a chance of failing in – from board games to work practices. I also attempted to excel in everything I did take on. As a teaching assistant in a secondary school, one of the teachers used to call me Mary Poppins, because I was “practically perfect in every way”. That only made me more determined. I had to reach that 100%.

The problem is, I missed out on such a lot. I was told at an early age I was useless at Maths. I retold the lie to myself so many times, it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. The only reason I got a ‘B’ in my ‘O’ level exam, was because one teacher invested his time and energy, telling me over and over how good I was, so that by the time the exam came around, I almost believed it.

I can’t play music. Well, that is not strictly true. I can play chopsticks on the piano, and London’s Burning on the recorder. But imagine if someone had given me permission to play the piano badly, or draw badly, or have a go at carpentry. What if I had been allowed to fail over and over, without making me feel as if I was useless?

Thomas Edison, the inventor of the light bulb is famously quoted as saying, “I have not failed 700 times. I’ve succeeded in proving 700 ways how not to build a lightbulb.”

Penicillin was discovered because Ian Fleming didn’t clean his workstation before going away on holiday. Columbus was trying to find a route to Asia when he “discovered” America. Post-It notes were made possible because Dr Spencer Silver was trying to invent a super strong instant drying glue – and failed spectacularly with his weak adhesive that never seemed to dry.

I could list many more. All of them were abject failures on the surface, but actually, their failures taught them so much more.

When I first started writing, I thought every sentence, paragraph, chapter, and manuscript should be perfect. I felt ashamed when my (absolutely wonderful) mentor pointed out a mistake or suggested that something might be written another way. With anyone else, I might have given up, but she gave me feedback in such a way, it encouraged me to have another go, to learn from my mistakes, and to pick myself up and try again.

I don’t think I would ever have risked publishing a book without her support and encouragement.

Now I don't care that my first drafts are messy, full of holes and mistakes. They are just that: first drafts. It doesn’t matter how many times I have to revise them to create that great story. (Notice, I didn’t say perfect!) And I have also accepted that some people will never like them. That’s okay too. I am, sadly, not Mary Poppins. I can only do my best.

Perhaps one day, I might have a go at learning the piano. With encouragement, I might even learn another tune. Or I might decide it really isn't my thing. That’s okay too.

Back to my Church Family News.

This week, one lovely little girl went to the front and declared she had come fourth in a competition. I clapped extra hard. She may never achieve a higher place, but that morning, she was as proud as punch.

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but let me give you permission to fail, to make mistakes, to mess up and get it wrong. If you can, I’d love for you to enjoy doing it too.

You say you can’t paint? Pick up some brushes and have a go. You have a gazillion reject letters from agents? Publish your book yourself. Even if you sell only a handful of books, be proud of what you have achieved. Run and enjoy the wind in your face. Dance as if no-one is looking. Knit a scarf with holes in it. Write a second-rate poem. Find your joy in the doing, not the achieving.

And forget the dusting. That isn’t even remotely important.