Originally written August 29, 2006

     I just rewatched an episode of The Office (Emmy award winner for best comedy, thank you very much)–in other words, engaging in one of my favorite pastimes. It’s the episode where Dwight wins the Salesman of the Year award and has to give a speech to hundreds of colleagues. The problem is, he is paralyzed by fear–much like I would be in that situation. He recounts how he lost the fifth grade spelling bee to Raj Patel when he misspelled, in front of the entire school, the word FAILURE. (Being the Alabama State Spelling Bee Winner, I can’t relate so much to this particular incident.)

     I just returned to the city after a two-week vacation. I immediately felt the need to catch up on blogging lest the world fall off its axis, pedophiles sit in first class, and snakes take over planes. Plus, it’s important to give people a diversion from working and something to use against me, right? I was looking for ideas in a notebook I keep to record random thoughts. It’s a big notebook, and it’s very random. Awhile ago, I had written down a short and simple phrase: Give yourself permission to fail. I don’t know the circumstances or inspiration that prompted me to write that, but it stood out among the other random sentences, so I’ll take a stab at it.

     Most of my life, I have avoided roads that held a high failure potential. Example: the spelling bee. It wasn’t exactly fun, and I didn’t so much WANT to practice spelling obscure words every day, but I was a naturally good speller (and nerd) and I knew this was an area I could really succeed in. I weighed the risk of embarrassing myself in front of a crowd of people, and I determined it was worth it. Subsequently, I won. Fast forward a few years to eighth grade, when I decided to start taking dance classes. I, like most people, did not start out as a great dancer. I, like some people, never became a great dancer. It just didn’t happen. Granted, I only gave it two years. But when I realized I didn’t have the feet or the natural talent for ballet, I switched roads and pursued one more familiar, with which I already had success: school. I don’t tell that (thrilling) story because I regret studying or harbor secret desires to dance with Baryshnikov, but to raise a point: We rarely give ourselves permission to fail. We, in fact, avoid it at all costs.

     Here’s another bedtime story for you. When I was in seventh grade I had been suffering from migraines for a couple of years and had several tests run–MRIs, CAT scans, etc. Finally, I went to a neurologist who asked about my performance in school. When I told him I made straight A’s (once upon a time, I did), he told me that the next time he saw me, he wanted to hear that I had brought home some C’s. His point was that I was putting too much pressure on myself and that was causing the headaches. This guy with a medical degree believed that my fear of failure was showing up as profound pain. Is fear that powerful? I don’t know if he was right or not, all I knew is that my mom nearly snatched my arm out of my socket running me out of there. And there wasn’t a next time.

     Our fear of failure is unfortunate for several reasons. One is because anytime we operate out of fear, we aren’t living in truth, and we therefore become someone we are not meant to be. Another reason lies in the way we are designed. We are not designed to succeed when we are solely self-sufficient. Yes, Donald Trump would disagree, but then he and I would probably define success differently, wouldn’t we? We are designed to fail at self-reliance, because we are designed by one who knows that we can only reach our full potential and live our truest story when we rely upon him. Unfortunately for us and our egos, we tend to learn and grow more from failures and suffering than when times are great, sailing is smooth, and our ratings are up. Willa Cather wrote that some things are learned best in calm, and some in storm. I might amend it to say a few things are learned best in calm; everything else is learned best in storm. We are designed so that when we fail, we see the truth more clearly as well as the one who is all truth. It is in that recognition (in the storm, most likely) that we reach a new place in our lives and our stories. We become more us. And if it takes failure to get us there, is that really something to be afraid of? Our failures refine us; they make us more honest and real–but only if we let them. Only if we give ourselves permission to fail.

Another random thought: Tom Hanks made Turner and Hooch before he made Saving Private Ryan. We all have to start somewhere.