Permission to Fail: The Freedom to Get It Wrong

Why are we so afraid of failure, and what might become possible if we stopped letting it define us?

When did we become so afraid of failing?

Somewhere along the way, we seem to have decided that success is good and failure is bad. That success is something to celebrate, while failure is something to be ashamed of, embarrassed about or, preferably, hidden away where nobody can see it.

We wear our successes like badges of honour and bury our failures like dirty little secrets.

But what if we’ve got it all wrong?

What if failure isn’t the opposite of success?

What if failure is simply part of the journey?

Think about the world’s most successful entrepreneurs, athletes, artists and innovators. Do you honestly believe they got to where they are without failing? Of course not. They’ve lost competitions, made poor decisions, launched ideas that went nowhere, been rejected, fallen flat on their faces and had to start again.

They’ve learnt through trial and error.

And isn’t that how we learn most things?

We try. We get things wrong. We figure out what didn’t work. We adjust. We try again. Yet somehow, as a society, we’ve turned this perfectly normal process into something to be feared.

And I wonder how much it’s costing us.

When did failure become something to be ashamed of?

I remember being at school and believing failure simply wasn’t an option. At university, it was much the same. I can’t tell you exactly when I developed that belief. I think it came from everywhere. My parents, my extended family, my teachers, the education system and society in general.

The message, whether spoken or unspoken, was clear.

Don’t fail.

Failing is bad.

And somewhere along the way, I absorbed another message, one that was perhaps even more damaging. If I failed, I was somehow less worthy. I don’t know when that belief stopped being something I heard from the world around me and became something I told myself. But it did.

And looking back now, I wonder how many opportunities I missed because of it. How many things did I never attempt? How many experiences did I turn down? How many potential joys, adventures or talents did I never discover? Not because I wasn’t capable, but because I wasn’t prepared to risk being bad at something.

The day I failed a test — and laughed

Fast-forward a few decades. I was in my forties, completing a course, when I failed a test. An actual test. I was initially shocked. How on earth had I made it through more than forty years without failing a test? And then I burst out laughing. My husband looked at me in surprise. I think he was expecting a rather different reaction. And to be fair, twenty-something me probably would have been devastated. But this time, something was different.

I think, on some level, I suddenly realised just how ridiculous the whole expectation was. I’d failed a test. So what? It didn’t mean I was stupid. It didn’t mean I was incapable. It certainly didn’t make me less worthy. It simply meant I hadn’t understood some of the material well enough. That’s all.

The test had measured my understanding of a particular subject, at a particular moment in time. It hadn’t measured me.

So I went back, revisited the material, learnt what I needed to learn, rewrote the test and passed. And that was that. No shame. No drama. No crisis of confidence. Just a gap in my knowledge that needed a little attention.

These days, I actually brag about failing that test. Not because failure is some extraordinary achievement, but because I finally understood how ordinary it should be. For so much of my life, I’d treated failure as something that absolutely must not happen. And when it finally did, nothing terrible happened at all. I was still me. I just had a little more learning to do.

The pressure to succeed starts so young

Right now, across South Africa, thousands of Matric learners are preparing to write their final examinations. For many, the pressure is enormous. They’ve spent years being told how important Matric is. How their results will determine their futures. How they need to work harder, study longer and achieve more.

And yes, Matric is important. It can open doors and influence which opportunities are immediately available. But can we please stop treating it as though it determines the value of a young human being or the entirety of their future? Because it doesn’t.

For some young people, academic pressure becomes overwhelming. Anxiety and depression are very real concerns, and suicidal thoughts and behaviour are serious risks that deserve compassionate attention and professional support.

And I find myself asking: What are we teaching our children about success, failure and their own worth?

When a young person believes that failing an examination means they’ve failed at life, something has gone terribly wrong with the message.

There are opportunities to rewrite examinations. There are bridging programmes, alternative qualifications and different routes to further study or employment.

Not every road is straight. Not every journey looks the same. And not every eighteen-year-old knows what they want to do with the rest of their life. Good grief, plenty of us are still figuring that out in our forties and fifties!

Imagine if, instead of saying, “You cannot afford to fail,” we said: “I want you to do your best. Prepare well. Give it your all. But whatever happens, we’ll figure out the next step together.”

Imagine how much safer that might feel. Because our children need to know that their results matter, but they matter infinitely more.

We don’t just fear failure. We fear what we think it says about us.

Here’s something I often explore in coaching. When someone tells me they’re afraid of failing, I get curious. What exactly are they afraid of? Is it the practical consequence of something not working out? Or is it the embarrassment? The judgement? The possibility of disappointing someone? The fear that others might think they’re not good enough?

Because there’s an enormous difference between saying: “I failed at something.” And saying: “I am a failure.”

One describes an experience. The other becomes an identity. And when we attach our self-worth to our achievements, every mistake becomes a threat to how we see ourselves. No wonder we’re so afraid to try.

We start playing it safe. We stick to what we know. We avoid opportunities where we might look inexperienced, awkward or, heaven forbid, a little ridiculous. And gradually, our worlds become smaller. Not because we’re incapable of more. But because we’re too afraid of discovering what happens if we get it wrong.

Why should we have to be brave to fail?

These days, I think it takes courage to fail. It takes courage to be a beginner, to be terrible at something, to make a fool of yourself, to put yourself out there without knowing how things will turn out.

But here’s what really gets me. Why on earth should we have to be brave to do any of those things? Why should trying something new feel like an act of courage? Why should we need permission to be a beginner? Why should getting something wrong be such a big deal?

Surely these should be ordinary, everyday human experiences. We try things. Some work. Some don’t. We learn. We practise. We improve. We change direction. We try something else.

That’s life.

Watch a toddler learning to walk. They fall over, get up and try again. Sometimes they laugh. Sometimes they cry. Sometimes they need a cuddle before they’re ready to try again. But they don’t lie there wondering whether they’re worthy of being loved because they fell over. They haven’t yet learnt to be ashamed of trying.

Imagine if we could hold on to just a little more of that freedom as we grow older.

Sometimes you have to be willing to suck at something

I have a friend who has a remarkable talent for talking me into doing the most ridiculous things. A few years ago, she convinced a group of us to enter the Highland Games. Now, I’m not entirely sure what possessed us to agree, but there we were.

Because I was the tallest, I was nominated to toss the caber. For anyone unfamiliar with the Highland Games, a caber is essentially a rather large wooden pole that you’re expected to lift and flip end over end. Yes. Really.

The whole idea seemed completely absurd. I’d never tossed a caber in my life. I had absolutely no reason to believe I’d be any good at it. And there was every possibility that I’d make a complete fool of myself. But I gave it a go (me team was relying on me). And guess what?

I won gold!

It turns out I’m actually rather good at tossing cabers. Who knew?! Certainly not me. And I would never have discovered that if I’d been too worried about looking silly, getting it wrong or failing in front of everyone.

Now, I’m not suggesting we’re all secretly gifted caber tossers. But I do wonder how many hidden talents, unexpected joys and wonderful experiences we’re missing because we’re not prepared to be beginners.

Because being a beginner means being willing to be bad at something. To be awkward. To get things wrong. To laugh at yourself. To try again.

And sometimes, to discover something extraordinary.

The exhausting business of never getting anything wrong

There’s another side to our fear of failure that I see frequently in my work as a burnout coach. When failure feels unacceptable, we often try to eliminate the possibility of it happening. We overprepare. We overthink. We overwork. We double-check everything, struggle to delegate, set impossibly high standards and become our own harshest critics. We tell ourselves that if we just work hard enough, plan carefully enough and control enough of the details, we can guarantee the outcome.

But we can’t. And trying to do so is exhausting. Perfectionism can become a way of protecting ourselves from the shame of getting something wrong.

And when our self-worth is tied to our performance, there is very little room for rest, experimentation or simply being human.

We aren’t just striving for success. We’re running away from the possibility of failure. And those are two very different ways to live.

How do we change our relationship with failure?

I think it starts with changing the conversation, both with ourselves and with our children.

1. Separate your worth from your performance.

You can fail an examination, lose a competition, make a poor business decision or get something completely wrong without becoming a failure.

Your achievements are things you do. They are not who you are.

2. Get curious instead of critical.

Rather than asking, “How could I have been so stupid?” try asking:

• What happened?
• What didn’t work?
• What can I learn from this?
• What might I do differently next time?

Curiosity creates opportunities for growth. Shame tends to shut them down.

3. Celebrate the courage to try.

(Especially with our children.)

Of course, we can celebrate good results and achievements. But let’s also acknowledge the effort, preparation, persistence and willingness to learn.

Let’s not make the final result the only thing worth celebrating.

4. Be mindful of what you’re modelling.

Children don’t only learn from what we tell them. They watch how we respond when we make mistakes.

Do we acknowledge them, laugh when appropriate, apologise when necessary and move forward? Or do we become defensive, embarrassed and highly self-critical?

Perhaps one of the greatest gifts we can give our children is showing them that adults get things wrong too. And that it’s okay.

5. Learn to fail forward.

I love this idea.

Failing forward doesn’t mean pretending failure is wonderful or that disappointment doesn’t hurt. Sometimes failure is painful. Sometimes there are very real consequences. Sometimes we need time to grieve what didn’t work out.

But once we’re ready, we can ask ourselves: “What can I take from this experience that will help me move forward?”

The aim isn’t to repeat the same mistake over and over. It’s to use what we’ve learnt to make a different choice next time. And sometimes the lesson is simply that something wasn’t right for us. That’s valuable information too. And we don’t need to turn every disappointment into an extraordinary success story to justify having tried.

What would you do if you weren’t so afraid of failing?

I want you to think about that for a moment.

What have you been putting off? What would you love to try but haven’t, because you’re worried you won’t be good at it? What dream have you quietly put aside because you’re afraid of what other people might think?

Perhaps it’s starting a business, changing careers, signing up for an art class, going back to study, entering a race or learning something completely new. Perhaps it’s something much smaller. Something you’ve been telling yourself you’re not capable of doing.

Now imagine taking away the expectation that you have to be good at it. Imagine giving yourself permission to be a beginner. Permission to get it wrong. Permission to laugh at yourself. Permission to try again.

Doesn’t it suddenly feel a little less frightening? A little less formidable? A little more doable?

Not everything we try is going to work out. We won’t always win gold. We won’t always pass the second time. Sometimes we’ll give something our absolute best and still not get the result we hoped for. But that doesn’t mean the experience was wasted.

You can be disappointed in an outcome without being disappointed in yourself. And you can be proud of having tried, even when things don’t go according to plan.

So, to every Matric learner preparing for their exams, to every parent trying to support them, and to every adult who’s quietly holding themselves back because they’re afraid of getting something wrong: Please remember that one result, one mistake or one setback does not define you.

Prepare. Practise. Give it your best. And if things don’t work out? Take what you can learn, ask for support if you need it, and find your next step. Fail if you must. But fail forward.

And who knows? You might just discover you’re brilliant at tossing cabers.

Perhaps the real tragedy isn’t that we might fail. Perhaps it’s all the living we miss because we’re too afraid to try.

A little something to reflect on

What would you be willing to try if you knew that failing wouldn’t make you any less worthy, capable or lovable?

And perhaps more importantly: What if we raised a generation of children who didn’t need to be brave enough to fail, because nobody had taught them that failure was something to be ashamed of?