Failure

If I close my eyes, I can still perfectly picture the moment.

Freya (one of my best friends in year 7 and still now) was going around the corner at her usual blistering pace. She hugged the curve like spanx. Watching her intently, I counted down the moments until I needed to launch off. We had a good 5-10 metre lead on the next class, and I knew I could take my opponent easily on this last leg, as I had earlier on that day in the individual sprints.  

I set off, victory in my sights.

Maybe I was too early. Maybe too late. Maybe too fast. Who knows.

All I remember was scrabbling around the floor looking for the baton.

I made up part of the gap, finishing third, only to see that we were disqualified for lane interference. I remember getting a “pity point” for some hopefully self-esteem building reason by our teachers who could see my whole world had come unravelled in that event.

I wasn’t the prettiest.

I wasn’t the smartest.

I wasn’t the  best musician, or actor, or artist, or anything else.

But I was the best runner.

“Was” it seems being the operative word.

This was the first time I remember failing.

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I sobbed all the way home from the test centre after failing that first test. In hindsight, it was not the best idea to take it just two weeks before my due date. Unsurprisingly I had failed due to not being able to adequately check my blind spot as my burgeoning bump restricted my movement. I confessed to Steve that passing my test was my “present” to our unborn child, and now I felt I had nothing to give them, nothing to offer.

I was a bag of nerves throughout the second test. My legs physically shook as I attempted to negotiate my way around the city. Three minutes in I felt I had failed, and I remained silent, on the verge of tears, as I continued to confuse my right from my left and miss turnings on roundabouts and on the independent driving section. I wanted so badly to have a sense of worth. To not be the one that everyone had to give a lift to. To not be overwhelmed by the fact at the age of 29 I hadn’t achieved something 17-year-olds had. To not have to traipse around the city with Zella and another future baby on public transport on rainy winter days. My future family depended upon it, and I could no longer be a free loader to my husband, family & friends; I HAD to pass.

At the end of the test, the tears rolled like thunder, as I was faced with the reality that it wasn’t my inability to navigate that I had failed on, but a simple manoeuvre around a corner that I hadn’t controlled my nerves on.

Sometimes the fear of failure is the very thing that will cause you to fail.

Once again I found myself scrambling around on the floor looking for a baton, with victory racing off ahead of me.

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I’ve always liked to win.

Growing up in a city full of athletic cousins with a penchant for competitive games, our days were spent competing on Alex the Kid megadrive games, and then running outside for sprints down the streets. With our parents excelling in athletics and boxing amongst other sports, it was in our blood to aim to be the best.

I excelled in school with perfect attendance eleven out of thirteen years (only marred by a lengthy trip to Jamaica in Year 3 and a stomach bug upon my return from an all-expenses trip to Leon, Nicaragua as an official representative of Oxford, it’s twin city, in Year 10).

I accumulated awards for sports and drama and captained many teams.

Besides misadventures in Graphic Design and Biology, my exam results have always shown A’s & B’s; I set my sights on university early on, and was ecstatic to graduate, and graduate well.

Until returning to England in 2011, there was never a job or course I applied to and wasn’t successful in.

I remember being told by a dance teacher that I wasn’t the best dancer technique wise, but I more than made up for it in my performance.

If I couldn’t win the thing, then I would win you.

I get things done.

But sometimes

I come undone…

When I can’t control the pressure.

The pressure created and fashioned from the dangerous workings of a mind weaving words that hadn’t been verbalised by none other than a dark and unconfident part of my psyche.

The things that keep me awake at night are not the reflecting upon my highs,

But on musing upon the lows,

wondering where I went wrong,

desperate to not repeat history.

Harsh words, failed attempts from weeks, months, years ago even

Still lie heavy at the front of my mind.

99 good things happen,

but you go home thinking about

the one that got away.

And in the desperation for that that to not happen again,

The winding up of pressure begins.

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Around the same time as preparing for my second driving test,

Game of Throws was birthed.

I saw the advert for a recreational netball league in Birmingham

and realising that it would be cheaper price for me to be part of a team than register as an individual, I decided to create a team.

(The thought that I would have more control and not be subject to the whims of another leader on some random team was also a motivation.)

In my head, we were going to be amazing. Top of the league.

On the court, we were average. On a good day.

Rusty as it had been twelve years since some of us had played.

My stomach was in knots as we played, each game.

Nervous, desperate to win, and sick at the anticipation of failing.

But something happened

Amidst a season of 4 losses, 1 win on a technicality, and 1 genuine win (against the bottom team), I still loved every minute.

In the face of repeated weeks of failure, the team remained phenomenal, never giving up, playing respectfully, willing to try different positions, communicating well, encouraging each other, and even drawing the refs to make jokes with us at half times and after the games, such was our passion and fun.

I even said one night, “I am actually enjoying losing for once.”

Failure doesn’t have to be miserable.
Failure doesn’t have to be awful.

Failure doesn’t mean there’s no hope.

Do I want to win?

Of course.

(and always!)

But I refuse to let my world fall apart around me when failure comes.

Failure doesn’t mean it’s the end.

Slowly, slowly, my competitive side is getting my head around it.

And I’m finding freedom in the grace I give myself,

When I allow it to be ok,

If things don’t turn out perfectly.

It’s all part of the journey.