The Failure File
On the stories we tell ourselves when things go wrong and what failure does (and doesn’t) mean.
The F-Word We Don’t Say Out Loud
Failure. We all experience it. But in public interest work, especially the kind that relies on appearances, diplomacy, and strategic calm, we rarely name it.
We reframe it as a pivot. A redirection. A learning opportunity. And while that might eventually be true, it usually isn’t the first feeling that shows up.
Sometimes it shows up as shame. Or self-doubt. Or a loop of questions you can’t quite stop asking: Did I miss something? Was it me? Did I fail... or was I just allowed to fall?
This isn’t a how-to. This is what I half-jokingly call a “failure file.” A record of what failure has looked like in my own life, what it has taught me, and what I’m still figuring out.
The Exit That Haunted Me
At the height of the pandemic, I left a job I loved. I loved the mission, the people, the stakes. But I was burned out. I left before I could finish a major project, one that mattered a lot to me. Even though it was the right decision, it didn’t feel like strength. It felt like quitting. Like I had let people down. Like I couldn’t hack it.
Even now, I sometimes wonder if staying would’ve proved something. But I’m starting to believe that leaving did, too.
For a long time, that moment sat in my head as a private failure. Not because anyone said it was. But because I did.
And for a while, I held onto that departure as proof I wasn’t strong enough. But slowly, other voices began to shift the story.
Show Some Grace
My dad has a saying. "Show some grace."
He usually says it when I'm being hard on someone else but it applies just as much to myself. Grace doesn’t mean letting everything slide. It means offering the kind of understanding you’d extend to someone you care about. Even when that someone is you.
I’m learning that part of growing professionally is learning how to hold your own mistakes with that same grace. Not to excuse them. But to keep them from defining you.
What Failure Actually Taught Me
Failure isn’t noble. Not at first. It’s confusing. Sometimes humiliating. But over time, it sharpens you. It teaches you what pressure reveals and what it erases.
Here’s what I know now:
Failure isn’t always personal. Sometimes, the context changes. The support erodes. The timing breaks. And it has nothing to do with how hard you tried.
Resilience isn’t bounce-back speed. It’s what you carry forward.
You can mourn something without making it your fault.
You can be professional and still be human. One doesn’t cancel out the other.
Failures don’t just happen in big, career-defining bursts. There are smaller ones, too: the meeting where you froze. The proposal that didn’t land. The idea that never made it off the whiteboard. Those sting in their own way, but they also belong in the file.
Maybe that’s the real win: not the pivot, or the bounce back, or the next title. But the quiet decision to keep showing up a little more honest, a little more resilient, and a lot more human.
The Failures No One Sees
Some failures don’t even show up on a résumé. They show up in your relationships, your bank account, your own reflection.
The time you didn’t show up for someone you love, because you were tired or distracted or convinced you’d get another chance. The bill you forgot to pay, not because you didn’t care but because you were stretched too thin. The text you didn’t answer, the project you promised yourself you’d start, the version of you that you thought you’d be by now.
These don’t look dramatic from the outside, but they can sit heavy on the inside. Sometimes they hurt more because they cut against who you want to be. They remind you that failure isn’t just about jobs or titles — it’s about humanity, about all the ways we fall short of our own expectations.
And that’s why grace matters. Not because the failure is trivial, but because without grace, those small cuts can turn into stories about being unworthy, unreliable, or unlovable.
Who Gets to Fail Softly
Failure isn't evenly distributed. Some people get to fail quietly and land softly, spinning it into a narrative of growth. Others get labeled difficult. Dispensable. Done.
I’ve seen colleagues make big missteps and be given another shot. I’ve also seen others — often younger, often women or people of color — stumble once and never get another chance.
In public interest work, where funding is fickle and perception matters, it can be even more punishing for those early in their careers or those from underrepresented backgrounds. Not everyone has the safety net to fail in private. But everyone fails. And pretending otherwise just keeps the shame cycle going.
Final Thought
I still keep the "failure file." Not as a list of regrets, but as a reminder. A record of what didn’t work, what I learned, and how far I’ve come since.
If you’re keeping your own version, even if it’s just in the back of your head, maybe that’s not something to hide. Maybe it’s proof that you’re still in the game
We don’t say the F-word out loud nearly enough. But naming it doesn’t make it bigger. It makes it less lonely. Maybe that’s the real win: not the pivot, or the bounce back, or the next title. But the quiet decision to keep showing up a little more honest, a little more resilient, and a lot more human.