Winning through failure

If we never try, we will never see progress. Yet, if we do try, we risk failure. What’s a modern human being to do?

Frankly — and I think it is long past time the following statement should come into common usage — failure isn’t such a bad thing. Consider all the common devices we use on a daily basis that simply wouldn’t exist if the developers had been intimidated by the possibility of failure.

Life carries risk. That’s just the reality of our situation. It’s common to each and every one of us. To rid ourselves of the risk of failure is to embrace a life of stagnation and disappointment. That outcome should be avoided at all cost, as I see it.

Accept failure as a periodic occurrence. Welcome it, even. For failure only comes our way when we aim high and fall somewhat short.

Is that really such a tragedy?

From an early age we enter an educational system of some sort. Private school, public school, parochial school, home school, there are myriad options. All of them provide us with some benefit. All of them force us to risk failure on some level, repeatedly, for years.

It’s not the failures that harm us. It’s the fear of failure and the decisions we make to avoid what we perceive as a humiliating or painful experience.

When we consciously avoid doing things that might result in failure, we fail ourselves.

In high school I did so poorly in algebra that my dad insisted I take the class over again. So I did. My grades for the second go-round were worse than the first.

Was that a failure? Not to my mind. I was bored and bullied and disinterested in both the class and the concepts it taught. I had no frame of reference for where I might use algebra, so I disconnected and withdrew. I simply didn’t care.

But I did learn something. With that in mind, did I really fail? I don’t think so.

Not long after high school I got into electronics and worked at a circuit board factory running a CNC router. I found practical uses for algebra and realized I could work the problems fairly quickly and accurately. I gained confidence and experience that served me well when I shifted into aviation. The poor grades I got were not a reflection of my capacity or how well I could utilize the knowledge I’d gained. They were merely an indication of how well I performed on written tests — tests I had little interest in.

Years earlier this tendency of mine to disregard the importance of tests took a comical turn. Well, I thought it was comical. My teachers and parents thought I might have a screw loose.

The Iowa Standardized Testing System was used liberally in my grade school. In the 5th or 6th grade I took the tests along with my classmates. As I recall the chore involved two full days of testing filling out bubbles on a sheet of paper using a #2 pencil. I didn’t care for the experience, so I took a shortcut that caused a bit of a kerfuffle at home and at school.

You see, I scored in the 98th and 99th percentile on the earlier tests, which suggested I was a pretty sharp cookie. Later, I degraded to scoring only in the 24th percentile in math, which suggested I had a learning disability. This concerned the adults who plotted my path through the educational system. Mental health professionals were consulted. More tests were pressed on me. The whole experience was painful, embarrassing, and completely unnecessary.

Unnecessary because if anyone had asked me why I did so poorly on the math tests, I would have told them. But nobody asked. They merely assumed the test results gave them insight into my intellectual potential. In truth, they didn’t.

You see, the rule was that you could leave school when you finished the last test. Math was the longest and last test on the list so I did what any reasonably bright, profoundly bored student might have done. I filled in the bubbles indicating answer A, B, C, or D without actually reading any of the problems or working them to find a solution.

In just a few minutes I was able to finish a test that should have taken an hour or more. That got me out of school for the day. The scoring of the test meant a lot to the adults, but it meant nothing to me. Hence, we all learned something of value. Although, the big lesson I came away with had nothing to do with math.

Fast forward half a century and I can tell you I have learned this to be true: Set audacious goals, put real effort into achieving them, and accept that you will fail now and then.

In aviation our testing system is largely graded on a pass/fail scoring system. Yet, it is not possible to fail a check ride. Of the three possible outcomes, failure is not among them. You can successfully complete the ride, discontinue it, or unsuccessfully complete the ride. There is no failure.

I like this system. I like it a lot. It subtly acknowledges that learning and testing are not directly connected to one another. Anyone who keeps their eyes open, their brain engaged, and their ego in check will learn something of value through their aeronautical experiences. Even if they don’t successfully complete the occasional test, we can still learn something about flight, or mechanics, or interpersonal communications, or ourselves.

So, if you haven’t done it already, may I suggest you launch off into your remaining years with a bold attempt to push yourself and expand the limits of your capabilities. And when you find yourself failing from time to time, know that your current failure was an impossibility in the past. You’re getting better all the time.

Go for it.