Failure Is Not the End

When the sun rises over Yosemite National Park, its light first touches the steepest part of the El Capitan rock formation. That is precisely why it was named the Dawn Wall. From below, the enormous slab of granite — nearly a kilometer high — looks more like a wall than a mountain. The smooth, vertical face reveals no cracks, no ledges, no irregularities. Climbing it without bolts seems like an impossible mission. That is exactly what Tommy Caldwell is thinking in 2007 as he stands at the base of the wall. Even then, a bold idea begins to take shape in his mind: to reach the top in a way no one has ever done before — using only his body and rope protection. The first attempts are cautious and brief — a few meters up, followed by a quick rappel back down, returning to the ground with new questions and observations. Subsequent attempts allow him to refine individual moves, but at this stage they cannot yet be linked into a smooth sequence. The next attempt ends even sooner, as the previous strategy proves outdated and no longer allows progress upward. 

Years pass. Caldwell and his climbing partner Kevin Jorgeson tirelessly return to the wall — and are repeatedly forced to retreat. Sometimes because of storms, other times due to injury. One year, they manage to solve a section of the route, only to discover the next year that it cannot be connected to the following one. There are times when weeks of work lead only to the realization that the original concept was flawed. Doubts arise, fatigue sets in, and there are moments when the entire endeavor seems to lose its meaning. Until finally, in 2015, after a series of mistakes, withdrawals, and corrections, all the pieces begin to fit together. For the first time in history, the Dawn Wall is climbed free. Nineteen days of extremely demanding climbing. Eight years of repeatedly getting back up after failure and learning from it.

Most of the failures we face do not look like a single dramatic fall, but rather like a series of attempts that simply do not produce results. This everyday nature of failure teaches us to avoid it at every turn, often in ways that are ultimately destructive. At work, we are afraid to admit mistakes because they might harm our image or our career. In relationships, we avoid honesty so as not to acknowledge that we ourselves did something wrong — and that perhaps there is “something wrong” with us. Failure is also difficult because it has no clear boundary: it is hard to tell whether it is already time to withdraw or still worth trying again. Instead of analyzing our failures, we often choose to remain silent about them or explain them away as circumstances. Even more rarely are we able to say outright that it was our own choices that led us here. And without that, real change is difficult. 

So how do we know when failure is part of the path, and when it is a warning signal? Why does admitting a mistake still tend to be associated more with weakness than with maturity? What truly gives us the courage to try again? And what makes failure stop some people, while strengthening and pushing others forward — like Caldwell and Jorgeson?

Failure Is Only Information, not a Diagnosis

The story of years of unsuccessful attempts on the Dawn Wall clearly reveals a mechanism that also operates in far less spectacular circumstances: failure becomes a problem only when it stops being feedback about a mistake and starts defining our worth. The human mind tends to equate failure with self-image, as if a single error were enough to deliver a full diagnosis of our character and capabilities. A failed project can trigger shame entirely disproportionate to the actual losses, and one bad decision can linger for months in the form of an internal monologue. The language we use to describe failure is not neutral. Words like “I blew it,” “I messed up,” “I screwed up,” or “I failed” do more than state a fact — they amplify the emotional weight of the event. Over time, we stop seeing a mistake as information and begin treating it as proof of guilt. As a result, failure ceases to be something that happened and starts to become something we “are.” This is when paralysis sets in, when we avoid further attempts and feel the need to hide our missteps from others. The paradox is that the more we try to shield ourselves from the pain of failure, the fewer chances we give ourselves to truly learn from it and draw meaningful conclusions.

Research on motivation and perseverance shows that it is not the scale of a setback that determines whether someone makes another attempt, but the way it is interpreted. People who view failure as a signal to change strategy are more likely to return to action than those who see it as confirmation of their own incompetence. The difference does not lie in mental toughness or a “strong character,” but in the narrative we activate in our minds immediately after a stumble. If failure sounds like a verdict, withdrawal is a natural response. If it sounds like a message — “this didn’t work in this form” — it opens space for questions and experimentation. In this sense, the problem is not failure itself, but the story we build around it. The sense that failure relates to what we did, rather than to who we are, does not erase the pain of an unsuccessful attempt. It does, however, stop that failure from defining how we think about ourselves. And that is often enough to allow us to face the situation instead of avoiding it. 

Accepting Failure Is Not Giving Up on Ambition

When failure stops being a verdict and starts becoming information, another, more difficult question emerges what to do with the emotions that remain afterward. Simply accepting a mistake does not mean it suddenly stops weighing on us. The courage to be imperfect is not about indifference or lowering the bar, but about giving up self-punishment as the default response. Contrary to common belief, accepting failure is not a form of self-indulgence, but a condition for continued action. Psychology calls this self-compassion, but in practice it comes down to something very basic: the ability to treat ourselves with the same honesty and kindness that we often extend to others.

When a close coworker misses a deadline or a friend admits to a bad decision, we rarely point to it as proof of their incompetence. More often, we reassure them by saying, “it happens to everyone,” “that was a difficult situation,” or “what matters is what you learn from it.” We use this same language toward ourselves far less often. Research shows that when judging our own mistakes, we are significantly harsher than when evaluating the failures of others, even when the circumstances are nearly identical. Psychologist Kristin Neff, who studies self-compassion, has shown that people who are able to speak to themselves with the same kindness they show others return to action more quickly after failure and are less likely to remain stuck in shame. Not because they downplay the mistake, but because they do not add an extra layer of punishment or self-accusation.

This mechanism is also confirmed by research conducted by Juliana Breines and Serena Chen, who examined what happens to our readiness for real change after failure. In their experiments, people encouraged to respond to their mistakes with understanding, but honesty were more likely to make further attempts at improvement than those who reacted with harsh self-criticism. Crucially, this was not about feeling better, but about concrete behavior: more time devoted to preparation, a greater willingness to learn, and less avoidance of situations that reminded them of the setback. Failure ceased to be a threat to self-worth and became a problem to be solved. And it is precisely in this shift — from defending oneself to working on oneself — that we see why kindness does not weaken ambition but allows it to function.

Talking About Mistakes Is Not a Mistake

Since a gentler approach to our own errors increases our willingness to keep going, another — often overlooked — step in accepting failure comes into view: admitting it to other people. For many, this is far more difficult than the failure itself. Saying “this was my mistake” is still associated with losing face, weakness, or an invitation to criticism. In practice, however, it very often works the other way around. When someone takes responsibility for a misstep, they stop being a threat to others and start being seen as trustworthy and credible. The distinction between responsibility and self-humiliation is crucial here. Responsibility means acknowledging the facts and their consequences. Self-humiliation means adding a judgment about one’s own worth. In work and in relationships, this line is often blurred, leading not to clear communication but to defensiveness or excessive remorse. Admitting a mistake, however, requires neither explaining everything nor engaging in public self-flagellation. It is enough to name the situation as it is and show a willingness to make corrections. To others, this is a sign of maturity, not weakness.

When leaders speak openly about their own missteps, trust grows and others become more willing to report problems at an early stage. A lack of infallibility turns out to be less dangerous than a lack of honesty. Moreover, admitting a mistake often shortens the path to a solution, because instead of spending energy on hiding an error, space opens for jointly searching for a way forward. Authority built in this way does not rest on the impression of perfection, but on being honest about reality. And although in today’s culture of constant evaluation admitting a mistake is still often seen as a risk, in the long run it proves to be one of the most stable ways of building psychological resilience.

We Fear Failure Because No One Teaches Us How to Live with It

Fear of failure rarely arises solely from within us. Much more often, it is something we “learn” step by step in environments that consistently show us that mistakes come at a cost. At school, an error quickly turns into a bad grade rather than a starting point for a conversation about what we have not yet mastered. At work, mistakes are often treated as proof of incompetence rather than as a natural part of the learning process—especially in places where a culture of accountability replaces meaningful feedback. On top of that come social media, where we mostly see the result: a promotion, a success, a finished project — without any trace of the earlier attempts, doubts, or corrections. Under such conditions, failure is no longer just another step on the path of growth, but a signal that our position, competence, or credibility may be called into question. It is therefore hardly surprising that many people fear not the mistake itself, but what it will “say about them” in the eyes of others. Avoiding failure then becomes a strategy for protecting one’s image, rather than a lack of courage or ambition. 

This mechanism is clearly visible in the data. The Global Entrepreneurship Monitor — one of the largest international studies of attitudes toward work and entrepreneurship — regularly shows that fear of failure is one of the main barriers preventing people from taking on new challenges. In many countries, more than 40 percent of respondents declare that the fear of failing discourages them from acting, even when they see a real chance of success. These studies also point to clear gender differences: women are more likely than men to assess the consequences of failure as more serious and long-lasting, especially in a professional context. Analyses of workplace environments further show that where there is a high level of control and low tolerance for error, people are less likely to report problems and less likely to experiment with new solutions. All of this suggests that fear of failure is not a personal weakness, but a predictable reaction to a culture of constant evaluation. In a world where every mistake can be remembered, compared, and judged, failure ceases to be part of the learning process and begins to function as a social brake.

“Romanticizing” Failure: From One Extreme to the Other

When failure begins to function as a threat, the natural impulse is to try to give it meaning at all costs. That is why in recent years we have increasingly tended to “romanticize” it. We talk about failure as a necessary stage on the road to success, something that by definition “makes us stronger” and gives experience its meaning. In social media and motivational speeches, failure is often presented as a turning point that, in hindsight, always proves necessary and valuable. The problem is that this narrative oversimplifies reality. Not every failure is a lesson, not every setback leads to growth, and certainly not everyone requires deep self-reflection. Romanticizing failure means assigning it significance that it often simply does not have. Instead of asking what exactly did not work, we try to find meaning on a “higher level,” as if an ordinary mistake were not enough. As a result, failure — even the smallest and seemingly insignificant one — becomes yet another emotional task to be processed. Meanwhile, most setbacks are not dramas or turning points, but technical information — about bad timing, a flawed assumption, or missing data.

A failed job interview, for instance, may lead to reflections on the meaning of an entire career path, even though the real issue might have been a single question answered without sufficient thought. A project that fails to attract interest is often interpreted as proof of a lack of talent, rather than as a signal that it reached the wrong audience or was prepared in the wrong way. Even in personal relationships, minor missteps sometimes grow into “signs that this isn’t it,” when in fact they are simply a mismatch of expectations. Using failure in a meaningful way means giving it an appropriate scale. Instead of asking what this mistake says about me, it is better to ask: what can I do differently next time? Without pathos, without grand narratives, and without the need for every misstep to carry symbolic meaning. Failure does not make anyone wiser automatically. What makes us wiser is the decision of what to do with it — sometimes a very small one, but enough to move forward.

Quitting Does Not Have to Mean Losing

We often talk about failure as if perseverance were the only sensible response to it. “Don’t give up,” “try again,” “do it differently” — these slogans sound motivating, but they are not always accurate. Sometimes the biggest problem is not the failure itself, but the belief that every act of quitting equals weakness. Yet there is an important difference between failure and quitting. Failure is an event that tells us something about an action. Quitting can be a decision — often a difficult one, requiring courage and honesty with oneself. There are times when repeated attempts do not bring us closer to the goal but only increase the emotional cost and reinforce a sense of being stuck. In such moments, the question “should I try again?” may be less important than “is this really the right direction?” Changing course does not have to mean defeat. It can be a sign that we have learned enough to take a different path.  

Maturity in dealing with failure, then, lies not only in persistence, but also in the ability to let go at the right moment. In recognizing the point at which further attempts are no longer a form of growth, but an effort to salvage an earlier decision. This is easy to see in professional situations: someone strives for a promotion for years, each effort ends similarly, and exhaustion grows faster than real progress. Instead of asking whether it still makes sense, the thought appears that “I can’t give up now, because I’ve already invested so much.” This is one of the most treacherous traps — the more time and effort invested, the harder it becomes to change course. Yet the decision to leave, to change roles, or to adjust one’s goal is often not a capitulation, but a clear-eyed assessment of the situation. Many people only realize after taking such a step that it was not the end of the road, but a way out of a situation that had long been leading nowhere.

How to Come to Terms with and Understand Mistakes

Failure itself is rarely what holds us back the most. More often, it is the way we react to it immediately afterward. That is when the first thoughts, automatic judgments, and decisions appear — often made without reflection. These initial reactions determine whether a failure becomes something we can analyze and put to rest, or something that trails behind us for weeks, weighing us down like a ball and chain. That is why coming to terms with failure largely means consciously developing a few habits that help us name it, understand it, and draw the right conclusions from it. 

• Name what happened as neutrally as possible: do it as if you were describing the situation to someone who doesn’t know the context. “I didn’t get the job,” “the project was not accepted,” “the exam didn’t go as planned.” Avoid words that immediately judge you rather than the event. This shift in language doesn’t solve the problem, but it prevents you from adding unnecessary emotional weight to it.
• Separate facts from interpretations: a fact is what happened. An interpretation is the thought that follows right after: “this means I’m not good enough,” “others are better,” “this always happens to me.” It’s worth consciously separating the two, even by writing them down separately. Simply seeing that they are not the same thing often reduces tension.
• Don’t draw conclusions immediately: right after a failure, the brain operates in defensive mode. This is a poor moment for decisions and far-reaching conclusions. Give yourself time — several hours or even a day. Returning to the situation with less emotional charge often changes how it is perceived.
• Ask one concrete question instead of many general ones: don’t ask, “what is wrong with me?” That question has no good answer. Ask, “what can I do differently next time?” Even a small answer provides a sense of agency and direction.
• Pay attention to how you talk about failure to others: if you describe it in a way that reinforces guilt or shame, you are likely speaking to yourself in the same way. Shifting the narrative toward a more factual tone often works in both directions — outwardly and inwardly.
• Check whether you are harsher toward yourself than toward others: pause for a moment and ask yourself what you would say to a close person in the same situation. If the answer sounds completely different from what you say to yourself, it’s a sign that you are adding an unnecessary punishment to the failure.
• Decide whether it’s a mistake to fix or a signal to change direction: not every failure calls for “try again.” Sometimes it means “try elsewhere” or “try differently.” Consciously naming this stage helps avoid getting stuck in repeating the same patter.
• Close the matter with a single takeaway: not a list, not a ten-point analysis. One sentence is enough: “next time I’ll prepare differently,” or “this is not a direction I want to pursue further.” Closing the issue protects you from returning to it again and again without purpose.
• Return to action on the smallest possible scale: this isn’t about a big comeback or a spectacular improvement. Sometimes one small step is enough: sending another résumé, revising a section of a project, scheduling a conversation. Movement — even minimal — is the best way to keep failure from turning into paralysis.

The Courage to Be Imperfect

Coming to terms with, understanding, and accepting failure is a slow and demanding process. For some, it may be as extreme as climbing the Dawn Wall. None of us likes it when things don’t work out, and not everyone has enough perseverance, courage, and patience to immediately draw conclusions from setbacks and move on. And yet, this very ability — difficult, thankless, and often developed through trial and error — turns out to be one of the most useful in the long run. This is especially visible in sports, where failure is a daily occurrence rather than an exception. Athletes lose matches, lose form, and make technical and tactical mistakes, because without them there is no development. If they only ever won, they would have no reason to improve their style, refine details, or test new solutions. In this context, failure is feedback — sometimes painful, but essential. It shows the limits of current abilities and points to where there is still room for change.

In everyday life, however, working with failure is far more difficult than in sports. We don’t have coaches watching from the sidelines, able to name a mistake without judging the person. We don’t have technology that instantly shows what went wrong and how to reduce the risk of repeating it. Often, we are alone with our failures — without instructions, without clear feedback, and without any guarantee that the next attempt will be better. And yet, we still must build something from these experiences: change how we act, rebuild confidence, sometimes even reformulate entire plans. This is where courage becomes essential — the courage to be imperfect in a world where perfection is often an illusion rather than reality.