The only real way forward is by failing forward. There will be a handful of successes on the first attempt. But, mostly, it’s about failing, falling, standing back up, and trying again.
My mother and I were at the top of a hill in Oklahoma in the middle of July. My younger cousin Zach was waiting on his bike at the bottom of the hill. As I struggled to balance myself, even with one leg on the ground, I looked for the humanoid shadow of my cousin at the bottom of what seemed to me to be Death Valley. Wrong state, I know.
I inhaled a deep breath from the scorching southern heat and put my other foot on my bike’s pedal. That’s when real uncertainty and imbalance kicked in. But, my mother overrode my uncertainty with a surprise push down the nearly vertical hill. The wind on my face was a pleasant contrast to the heat. As the bike picked up speed, my legs struggled to keep up.
It was no longer cool wind, but hot gravel on my face as I wiped out and skid several feet toward my cousin. My mother rushed to the bottom of the hill and he went to get his mom, but by that point, I had recovered. I know I was sobbing and it had to have hurt, but I held the pain inside to not worry anyone.
By holding the pain in, I also held that moment in my mind. I wouldn’t touch another bicycle for years after that. Eventually, I made friends and they had had the typical experience learning how to ride. Maybe a similar push from a parent, but on level ground and a hand on the back. When I told them I didn’t know how, of course they tried to teach me.
How did they try to teach me? With a big old hill. There I was again at the top of a steep hill on a bike, one foot on the ground. It didn’t seem like Death Valley, but it wasn’t the plains of Kansas, either. Instead of a mother to push me, I had other boys using a combination of taunts and peer pressure to get me going.
The result wasn’t any different. I lost control of the bike and crashed. This time was into relatively soft grass, but it reaffirmed my hesitation. My friends came over and asked me if I was all right, and I was, so I held it in again. I wouldn’t touch a bike for another few years. Then I fell in love with someone who liked to go on bike rides.
She asked me one day if I wanted to go on a ride. The cat was out of the bag. I was a teenager who couldn’t ride a bike because he “never learned.” Really, I was just petrified of getting hurt again. She didn’t try to teach me, but instead let me figure it out on my own without pressure. I figured out if I just kept moving at a steady pace, I could maintain my balance better.
These three moments were all about failure. Well, maybe the last one was about overcoming failure. But, the point is: I shouldn’t have avoided learning for all those years just because I fell a few times. Sure, they weren’t pleasant falls (like falling asleep), but shying away from learning something new only hurt me.
I love learning new things. This also means that I have to be okay with failure, but I never have been. What the bike taught me, and what I keep having to relearn, is that failure isn’t a character flaw. It’s friction. And friction, while painful, is part of the process.
The truth is, every skill I’ve picked up since then has had its version of a hill. Whether it was going to school, being in a relationship, losing a job; all of it has felt like standing at the top, foot on the ground, looking down. But now I know the fall might come. It probably will. But I’ve also learned that the world doesn’t end when you wipe out. You just get up, brush off the gravel, and try again. Maybe on grass next time.