We tend to see failure as an endpoint: a closed door, a dead end, a signal to turn around and try something else. For much of my life, that’s exactly how I viewed it too. A failure meant I wasn’t good enough, smart enough, or disciplined enough. It was a judgment, not just on what I did, but on who I was.
Over time, however, I’ve discovered something unexpected. Failure has often been my most reliable compass, pointing me toward paths I might never have discovered otherwise — paths that felt more like me and brought real joy into my life.
Finding a New Perspective
This wasn’t always the case. When I was young, failure and I had a difficult relationship. I stayed back in 10th grade, landed in remedial classes, and flunked out of college twice in my 20s. Each setback reinforced a story I’d been telling myself: that I wasn’t capable, that success wasn’t for me.
When faced with challenges, my default was often to give up before I’d truly begun. The fear of failing again loomed too large, and not trying seemed safer than trying and confirming what I already believed about myself.
The shift started in my late 20s, when I began to reframe failure as feedback rather than a final verdict. This perspective change didn’t happen overnight, but it completely changed my relationship with setbacks. Instead of seeing failure as proof of my inadequacy, I learned to ask: “What is this telling me? What can I learn here?”
Unexpected Directions
One vivid example stands out from that transitional time. I’d decided I wanted to become a teacher, but with only a high school diploma, I wasn’t sure how to get there. I applied for a position as a trainer, thinking it would be a logical stepping stone.
The interview process required me to demonstrate my teaching skills in front of the company’s existing trainers. I remember standing there, delivering my carefully prepared material and watching them exchange smirks and barely concealed eye-rolls. Their dismissiveness was palpable and crushing.
I didn’t get the job, of course. But to my surprise, instead of taking their reaction as confirmation that I didn’t have what it takes to teach, it sparked something different in me: determination. Their rejection could have convinced me to abandon this path entirely. Instead, it strengthened my resolve.
I kept pushing forward, continued giving talks to volunteer groups (the Y2K catastrophe was a very popular topic … thankfully, I was right about that), and eventually found my way into teaching. Twenty-three years later, I’m still in the classroom.
That experience marked a subtle but important shift in how I processed failure. Rather than letting it define my limits, I let it fuel my persistence. Sometimes failure points us away from something that doesn’t truly fit who we are, even if we’re heavily invested in it.
I spent a year dedicated to becoming a fiction writer. I worked diligently, developed my craft, and came remarkably close to getting published and accepted into a few prestigious workshops. By conventional standards, I was on the right track, just not quite there yet. With continued effort, I think I might have got there eventually.
There was just one problem: I wasn’t enjoying the process. The writing itself didn’t bring me joy, despite my growing skill. So I failed at being a published author, shifted to making music instead, and discovered a spark of genuine creative fulfillment that had been missing. Music unlocked a joy that writing fiction never did for me.
Those writing skills weren’t wasted, either. They’ve come full circle right here, where I’m creating content I genuinely enjoy. What seemed like a “failed” writing career was actually pointing me toward a better expression of my creativity and later, a more authentic way to use my writing abilities.
Another example: for years, I’ve been telling everyone that I plan to create a YouTube channel. And for years, I’ve hesitated, never quite feeling ready or confident enough to begin. By some measures, this could be seen as a failure to launch; a goal repeatedly deferred.
But this particular “failure” cleared the way for something unexpected: restarting my website. What emerged wasn’t a consolation prize, but a new creative outlet. I’m creating content I’m proud of, establishing a practice that feels sustainable, and building something that feels right for me.
Would I still like to start that YouTube channel someday? For sure. But what initially felt like procrastination or lack of follow-through actually led me to a project that fits me better right now.
Creating Space for Discovery
One insight I’ve gained is that productive failure requires certain foundations. For me, establishing core competencies in my professional life created the stability that allowed me to experiment elsewhere. Having confidence in my teaching abilities gave me room to try writing fiction, making music, and launching side gigs, knowing that if they didn’t work out, my foundation remained secure.
This space to try, fail, and redirect is huge. Without it, failure becomes too threatening to risk, and we stay within familiar, “safe” territories that may not truly fulfill us.
My complicated history with failure has profoundly shaped how I approach teaching, too. When students struggle or disengage, I don’t write them off because I know what it’s like to be written off. Too many adults in my young life decided I wasn’t worth the investment based on my early performance. While there are still consequences for students who don’t engage in my classes, everyone has potential. Sometimes people just need time to find their way. I certainly did.
Opening Doors Through “Yes”
As I’ve gotten older, my relationship with failure has continued to evolve. Beyond simply reframing failure as feedback, I’ve become increasingly willing to say “yes” to opportunities, even when success isn’t guaranteed.
This openness has led to some of my life’s most meaningful experiences. When asked to help launch the Khmer Magic Music Bus, a non-profit arts preservation initiative now part of Cambodian Living Arts, I could have easily declined, thinking I wasn’t the right person or that it wouldn’t work out. Instead, I said yes. Co-founding that organization has become one of my proudest accomplishments.
The math is simple, but powerful. Saying yes to more opportunities means experiencing more failures, but it also creates more chances for extraordinary success. Every so often, something remarkable happens along the way that wouldn’t have been possible otherwise.
Looking back at my journey, I’ve learned to value what failure offers. When everything always goes smoothly, we don’t discover our limits or capabilities. We don’t experience the particular satisfaction that comes from struggle. These days I feel this most often in my coding projects. I’m not an experienced programmer, so failures happen frequently, making the moments when something works out all the more rewarding.
Failure also reveals what truly matters to us. My “failed” attempts at fiction writing showed me what didn’t bring me joy, just as clearly as music showed me what did. These discoveries aren’t available without the willingness to try, fail, and reflect honestly on the experience.
Finding Your Own Compass
I’ll always have my inner critic, a harsh voice that developed early in my life and is quick to interpret setbacks as personal inadequacies. With practice, I’ve learned to hear it without being governed by it, to view its catastrophizing with perspective, and to remember that failure is often just a redirect, not an endpoint.
The practice of self-compassion remains an ongoing journey. Putting failures in perspective — seeing them as feedback rather than judgment — requires continued intention. But the rewards of this approach have been immeasurable. I even ended up getting my bachelor’s degree when I was 40, with a 4.0 GPA.
By being open to opportunities that might not succeed, I’ve discovered paths I couldn’t have imagined at the outset. I’ve found that the compass of failure often points toward greater authenticity, joy, and fulfillment, but only if we’re willing to follow where it leads.