Failure happens often enough without us anticipating it from the get-go. At least, that’s how I see it. It seems that failure begets failure. We envision a failure in our future path down the road, so we pre-empt any possibility of success with the mere expectation of failure. It’s something of a self-fulfilling prophecy. I don’t know; maybe we’re afraid of being disappointed. We figure it’s better to get what we expect—even if what we expect is a dismal loss—rather than to get our hopes up and face the possibility of being crushed by disappointment.
But what a pivoting of things, and a flawed perspective: to make everything we hope and dream about our futures dependent upon whether or not we might face the possibility of rejection, a humiliating defeat, or a crippling loss—to make it a feelings-based pursuit or endeavor. Not that those things should be diminished or not considered, but the rub of it is that we end up making it about how we will feel, which precludes our own success. Isn’t it about—at the end of the day—becoming the best we can be, at whatever it is?
I remember a time where I gloriously anticipated my own failure. An epic fail, as it were. I was at the lake with my brother and his friends who were trying to teach me how to barefoot waterski. Ski without skis, that is. Of course, my love-hate relationship with water was something of a factor. While I could nominally swim, I never quite felt comfortable in the water. Interestingly enough, I have the same feelings about heights. Anyway, the common means by which they often learned to barefoot was off of a boom extending from the side of the boat. You would hang on to a short rope tied off at the boom. Starting off with a single slalom ski, the boat would—as it traditionally would with any skier—pull you up out of the water until you were successfully skimming across the water on this singular Kevlar plank, continuing to increase speed up to the mid-30’s to 40 mph, at which point you were supposed to remove your back leg from its boot and extend it onto the water. You are now essentially barefooting on one foot with the other still in the ski. Then, with a quick and sharp release you slip your other foot out of the ski and plant it firmly, but not forcefully, onto the water. You are now skimming across the water with nothing between you and your feet but a soft, seemingly endless, cushion of water. And no more pesky skis.
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That’s how it was supposed to happen. But I can tell you that’s not what actually happened. And as it turns out, water isn’t so cushiony at 40 mph. In fact, it feels something more akin to concrete. I made it as far as getting my foot out of the back boot and onto the water successfully. But it’s that final step of getting my other foot onto the water where the mayhem started. I have to be honest: I wasn’t fully committed to the process. I stepped in with the visions—not of stepping in and gliding across the water—but of face planting in a pain-inducing spectacle that would make even the barefooting veterans cringe. And that’s exactly what I did. (It so happens, there’s a correct way to fall. And I didn’t do it.)
Something that one of my brother’s friends said has stuck with me ever since. He said, “You stepped in expecting to fall.” As angry as I was at the time, I couldn’t disagree with his assessment. He was right. And he saw it better than I did at the time. A tepid anticipation of a foreboding element can be like a guy who parks his house on the beach at low tide. He can predict failure because he put into place all the elements for failure to happen. Then, when the tide comes in, he can say, “See, I told you it was going to flood.”