How to Fail: Everything I’ve Ever Learned From Things Going Wrong

by Elizabeth Day

I have evolved more as a result of things going wrong than when everything seemed to be going right. Out of crisis has come clarity, and sometimes even catharsis.

All of the women immediately connected with the idea and all of them – bar one – claimed they had so many failures to choose from, they weren’t sure how to whittle it down to the requisite three.

What does it mean to fail? I think all it means is that we’re living life to its fullest. We’re experiencing it in several dimensions, rather than simply contenting ourselves with the flatness of a single, consistent emotion.

There was an outburst of laughter. Even I knew I didn’t look pretty. My eyes prickled with tears. Hold them back, I told myself, pretend you don’t care. But of course I did care. I cared terribly. As a twelve-year-old, my need to camouflage myself by belonging was at its most pressing. I didn’t want to stand out. I wasn’t sure enough of myself yet to risk forming a new teenage identity of my own and until I figured that out, I simply wanted to be one of them.

I had stupidly thought that the qualities my parents and sister valued – a sense of humour, strong opinions, a slightly eccentric love of The Archers – would transfer seamlessly into a different environment. But teenagers are unforgiving of difference. Plus, there’s a thin line between strong opinions and shameless precocity, isn’t there? I was probably unbearable.

It’s so interesting what your mind chooses to fix on. Lots of other things happened during that period that were probably, in their own way, far more upsetting.

Yet it was Siobhan’s reaction to my photograph that stuck with me and although it would have been, in any other context, a passing, thoughtless comment, it became in my mind’s eye definitive proof that I was not good enough.

At school, I learned too late that my strength of character was perceived as oddness and from that moment on, my sense of self started to disintegrate.

It was to set in motion a coping mechanism that would last into my adult life, and cause me a great deal of heartache. It was an internal dislocation, which meant I could distance myself from the pain of my sadness and put it to one side, like a washed-up dish left to dry in its own time, while I continued to exist and function seemingly effectively. But the detachment from my own hurt meant I gradually lost touch with what I was actually feeling, which meant that this became difficult to express. I, who had so many words, could not find the right ones when it came to myself. At the same time, I was desperate to please others in the hope that, by doing so, I would finally be granted the secret access code to belonging. So I shaded my character according to the company I found myself in.

I had also learned some valuable lessons about how to be popular from my earlier experiences. I knew to stand back a bit and take stock. To be cautious about revealing myself too quickly for who I really was. I needed to suss out the other girls first and assess the group dynamic before making my move.

Still, I didn’t much like school. I always felt resentful that I wasn’t in control of my own life. I wanted, more than anything, to be an adult and in charge of my own existence. I was impatient to get on with things, to have a job, to live in my own flat and pay my own rent. In fact, I couldn’t wait to leave.