Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

–Samuel Beckett

A co-worker recently commented, “I love how you’re able to laugh at your mistakes and brush them off.”

I love that sentiment. I love it not because it’s always my truth. Trust me (I’m the author). I love that it’s what I project – that I’m someone who’s able to move through this world in such a way, because truthfully that’s who I strive to be – the person who shakes off failure. (It’s not always the case.)

Here’s a thing you already know – everyone fails. I fail. You fail. It sucks. I’d love to be instantly great at everything I try; I’m not even close. (Beth typed, surprising absolutely no one). And I hate looking or feeling stupid/foolish/incompetent when all I want is to do is come across as confident – maybe even capable. I’d frankly love it if things like my own feet weren’t clearly put on this planet (and at the end of my legs) only to serve as a way to humble me and destroy these “capable” and “competent” dreams. (Stupid treacherous feet. Stupid unexpected buckle in the sidewalk. Stupid fast rising concrete to the face. Stupid “I wish I were joking” real thing that happened.)

As you know, I occasionally choose to share some of my more humiliating stories. It’s my own wee protest against the very distorted lens we view our friends and family c/o social media. Over decades and peer pressure, we’ve become adept at promoting our best lives in 15-60 seconds/280 characters. “This is me. This is me having a great time. These are my toes in the foreground of some remote exotic location you wish you were at. This is me and my BFF making duck faces, flashing our peace/victory signs while I’m holding an open bottle of Cristal – yeah, I’m chugging it from the bottle – that’s how I roll now. Don’t you wish you were me?”

You know all of this. None of what I’m saying is news or particularly eye-opening, but I want to get to something I’ve learned that’s really helped me when I fail.

The fail bow.

In improv, how to embrace failure is one of the first (and one of the best) lessons you learn. The teachers explain you’re going to fail. You’re going to get tongue tied. You’re going to go left, when you should have gone right – up when you should have gone down. You’re going to feel like a complete idiot who signed up for a “fun” class and who suddenly can’t do silly things right. To prepare you for that moment, the class practices throwing their hands up in the air and shouting, “I FAILED!” before taking an exaggerated bow. When someone yells this, you’re encouraged to applaud wildly for that person – like failure was the goal all along, and they just summited an the peak of Mt. Failure and you helped them get there. As the class progresses, everyone begins embracing that feeling – that sense that failure is not something to fear and actually isn’t that bad. In fact, you kind of seek it out, because all the cool kids are failing and they’re suddenly the stars of the class. Plus, you’re pretty sure you might be able to out-fail them if you just applied yourself a little more. Now it feels weird to do things right. The class then that first real safe place to fail and fail spectacularly, because the sting of it was removed thanks supportive whoops and applause. Now all you need to do is take your bow.

For me, when I come here and share a failure, it’s my take on a fail bow. It’s my invitation for you to applaud and cheer me on – to laugh with me. And by showing you that I’m human, it’s my small way of making it ok for you to fail, too – to show you I’m beautifully flawed – not painted toes lightly dusted with sand in front of a supersaturated turquoise blue ocean.

…just another (mostly) delightful misfit in a cerulean sea of characters stumbling over her own feet and misplacing cars.

But know this my friend, when you fail, I’ll always be there to wildly applaud you for being just like me (and everyone else).