Beautiful Loser: What We Learn From Risking Failure

Beautiful Loser:  What We Learn From Risking Failure

I drafted this blog entry, longhand, in my deer blind on November 15, 2010.  My only consuming thought at the time was: “What a miserable failure I am.”

I had just missed one of the larger bucks ever seen on my Dad’s 160 acre farm.  I’m killing myself because it’s embarrassing (not to mention not very macho) to watch a trophy buck gallop past you at 60 yards while you unload your gun and watch him prance away into the neighbor’s woods.  You have to face friends and family and answer this question repeatedly:  “Did you get anything?”  And your only response can be:  “I missed him.  I failed.”

I quickly moved to pick myself up by the process of positive reinforcement.  The thrill of success in hunting cannot be accompanied without the chance of missing.  And I am now suddenly struck with the importance of failing as a means to being successful.

I’m reflective these days about chances taken, roads less traveled and some Y’s in the road that I avoided – some wisely and some in cowardly fear.  I’m thinking a lot about mistakes and failures – something we who have crossed the “halfway” point in our lives must ponder.  I am on the brink of having more to look back on than I may have to look forward to.  And failure comes alongside me as a friend and an enemy.

Failure is an American hallmark.  The Founding Fathers failed in their attempt to broker some type of reasonable peace agreement with a pigheaded king an ocean away.  The result of this cataclysmic failure spawned a revolution that resulted in the formation of the greatest triumph of the modern world – America.

Success is a recipe with multiple ingredients (skill, bravery, planning, resources, luck, etc).  Failure is a simple recipe.  It requires one part trying.  Without trying there is no failure.  It is a miserable existence to live without experiencing failure, but sadly, many people starve themselves on a diet of being comfortable when the feast of failure lies around the corner.

Twice in my professional life I have attempted magnanimous undertakings which moved me to fear, tears and trembling.  Failure, it seemed, had a better than 50 percent chance.  I now share these experiences with you not to boast, but to inspire you to take calculated risks which may very well result in failure.

My first look at failure happened in my twenties, when I had a decent job but aspired for more (more challenge, and yes, more money).   Having met “minimum requirements” for the job, I bluffed my way into an interview and did surprisingly well.  Then, through sheer moxie I suppose, I got that fated phone call:  “We think you’re the best candidate and would like to offer you the job.”   Prior to this call, the fun was in the hunt and I had no reasonable expectations that I would be offered a job that I was likely not emotionally ready to tackle.

Upon acceptance I went into a small-scale panic attack that included (private) tears, trembling and anxious whispers of “My God, do these people even know what they’re doing?”  (In these moments, we must consider failure as a real option.  Then we must face it down and accept the reality that it won’t kill us).

That job ended up being one of the greatest experiences of my professional life, stretching me a thousand miles and presenting dozens of more chances for new failure.  I probably failed in about half of those opportunities, but the other half resulted in small and large victories which prepared me for greater opportunities down the road.

The second opportunity for failure came in my thirties and revolved around getting an advanced degree in an accelerated MBA program.  Admission required retaking college math courses, taking the GMAT exam, getting accepted into the program, and securing a highly sought-after scholarship (all chances for failure).  I passed the courses, barely made GMAT minimums and got admitted.  Unfortunately, after making it as one of two finalists, I was rejected for the scholarship in lieu of a “more qualified candidate.”  Failure had won this time.  The rejection and disappointment hurt deeply.

Months later, a new opportunity afforded itself which provided access to the needed funds to enroll in the program.  Once I began this program, I quickly realized I was the 90^th smartest person out of 90 total students, comprised mostly of engineers and CPAs (I was the only English major in the entire program, which the corporate finance professor loved to remind everyone of).  Failure seemed imminent again.  This time, my fear of flying was resolved thanks to the help of four newfound friends within the program (an engineer, a  CPA, a physician and a TV anchor) whose superior intelligence was also peppered with generosity (and perhaps a dash of pity!)  Risking failure produced four excellent friends who I am still close with today.  It also produced an MBA at the age of 38.

Now in my 40s, I can point to many other failures, some of which had benefits, and others which taught me what not to do in the future.  (Running a sub-4 hour marathon took me two tries and had residual benefits. Investing in real estate at the apex of a historic bubble has been more painful and the jury is still deliberating.   Making my own stock picks?  Total failure.)  And yet, even in the losing there is excitement and a sense of growth.

Back to my deer story.  Metaphorically speaking, every missed deer is an opportunity to rethink how you might have done better.  It makes you that much more prepared for the next opportunity.

I don’t mind thinking of myself as a beautiful loser.  When I lose, I tend to lose big, and even when I win, the victories are relatively small.   But there’s a lot of satisfaction in trying, and to some degree we can measure our lives in the kind of risks we have taken (or not taken).  They say failure is an orphan, and success has a thousand fathers, but I disagree.  Failure is a foster-child looking for a home.  Invite him in every now and then and you’ll be surprised at how much you enjoy the company.

Talk to you Afterwords….

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