On Failure

I am a failure.

(Stick with me. My story gets better.)

February has always been a miserable month for me, and this one was especially so. Now that it’s (thankfully) the final day of that month, I’ve been thinking about all the ways I’ve fallen short over the course of my life.

In grade school, I stopped doing my homework because it was uninteresting, unchallenging, and silly, and I’d figured out that my grades at that level weren’t really going to impact my future enough to worry over. In high school, I did do my work, but I didn’t actually try. I made no effort to excel or distinguish myself. The after-school clubs were left unjoined, and papers and projects alike were completed like a recipe in the kitchen—one cup of hypothesis, three tablespoons of salient points, a dash of reference material, and bake. I was not engaged; I was a mass-production line.

It had always been assumed that college would be my time to shine. While the classes were far more interesting, I still did not put anything close to my best effort into my work. I dated a thoroughly unsuitable boy, bringing him home to meet my parents and ensuring many sleepless nights for them while they worried I’d keep him (I didn’t). My performance at school was perfectly adequate, but that was all. There was nothing on paper to show that I was intelligent, unique, and had something to offer the world. I did not go on to graduate school as I’d wanted, and I did not land a decent job when I graduated. It was several years before I had anything even remotely resembling a career, and I was only brought to it out of necessity rather than ambition.

While the official reason for my departure from that career was my children’s special needs, there will forever be a voice in the back of my head adding that another reason was that I sucked at it. It never felt real to me, and I was incredibly unhappy. I couldn’t be one of those moms who juggle everything, keep lists, vacuum more than once a year, and get up at 5 a.m. to do Pilates. In a lot of ways, when I quit my job to stay home, I felt like I was bailing on adulthood.

Since then, I’ve edited a pile of novels and published my own work. My royalties are abysmal. I do nothing to change that, make no effort to really market and promote. I even am seized with the impulse to apologize to those who have spent money on my books.

Sorry I suck. Better luck next time.

However. If I hadn’t lived the life I’ve led, so many things would have been lost. I never would have dated my husband if I hadn’t been so determined to date my ex’s opposite. I never would have been a parent who could respond to her children’s social and academic anxiety with compassion and understanding. I never would have been able to support my friends without judgment when their lives fell apart. I never would have learned how to engage and really try when the object is genuinely important to me.

I have unpaid bills, holes in my carpets, and missing plaster on my walls. My house will never be on the historical register. I may never be a successful author. My kids will definitely never be entirely “normal.” My middle-age spread has evolved into what might be called a hostile takeover of neighboring space. I frequently forget to floss. In the eyes of the world around me, I am a failure.

When I’m with my husband, it still feels like we’re dating. I still get butterflies in my stomach when he smiles at me. When I talk to my children, I see whole worlds in their eyes that no one else can access but them. When I help an author understand how to tap into a manuscript’s full potential, I feel a huge sense of accomplishment, as well as gratitude for the opportunity to be a part of that process. When I write, I am happy and focused and learn to know myself better. I stretch and challenge and grow.

Being a failure is pretty damn fantastic.