I’ll never forget the sound it made. A dull, humiliating thud—the kind of sound that tells you something has gone awry long before you’ve had time to process what. There I was, sprawled on the pavement in my brand-new heels, the very ones I’d boasted about to my friends as my “main character moment” shoes, clutching at my bruised pride. It wasn’t just a stumble; it was a full-on performance flop, legs flailing, bag skidding across the street. But here’s the kicker: it wasn’t just the fall that got me. It was the fact that I had face-planted directly in front of my (very) recent ex, who just so happened to be walking toward me, arm-in-arm with someone new. You can’t make this stuff up.

That, dear readers, was my first brush with what I like to call a Big Public Failure™. And though pavement doesn’t have feelings, I still blame it for all subsequent disasters because it feels better than blaming myself. But that moment—yes, the horrifically awkward, cringe-worthy one—turned out to teach me something far greater than how to fall gracefully (because I still haven’t mastered that). It taught me about resilience, the kind that transforms the sting of failure into a badge of honor. Let’s revisit the wreckage, shall we?

When the Fall is Literal but the Lesson Hits Metaphorical

Let me set the stage for you. I was fresh out of what I’ll generously call the “learning experience” of my early twenties. You know, that time in your life when you think you’ve got everything figured out but are actually stumbling around blindfolded, holding a red solo cup filled with late-night bad decisions? Yeah. I’d just ended a whirlwind relationship that—while passionate and inspiring in some ways—was the kind that made me look back and say, “You thought what was love?”

After the breakup, I had that unshakable, delusional urge to reinvent myself, à la Julia Roberts in Eat Pray Love. No eating, praying, or loving abroad, though—just the purchase of reckless peep-toe stilettos I couldn’t afford and deciding they were the dawn of “new me.” Important life tip: your new era should never hinge on a new pair of shoes.

But back to the fall. I’d convinced myself that strutting down the street would demonstrate to the universe (and maybe my ex, should the opportunity arise) that I was thriving, manifesting, and glowing. Spoiler: the universe wasn’t convinced. Instead, I fell in the most cinematic way possible, right as the guy who broke my heart walked toward me with his new glow. The embarrassment was instant; the life lesson, however, was the kind that ages like fine wine.

Failure is a Mirror (and Sometimes the Lighting is Brutal)

We avoid failure because it’s uncomfortable. It’s sweaty palms before an apology or accidentally texting your date a meme meant for your group chat—awkward, vulnerable, and downright painful. But failure strips away the curated filter you sometimes live behind and reflects what’s real.

In this case, falling flat on my face (literally) was the jolt I needed. It tore through my carefully constructed post-breakup bravado and revealed the hard truth I’d avoided: the “new me” wasn’t real. I hadn’t truly processed my grief or taken time to understand what I’d learned from the breakup. Instead, I tried to bypass the discomfort by packaging myself as someone else entirely. But here’s the thing about trying to run from failure—it’s faster than you. Sooner or later, it’ll catch you, and the only way out is through.

Pro tip? Channel your inner Beyoncé. By that, I mean own it. Whether your version of “falling” is bombing a job interview, forgetting your partner’s birthday, or having your dreams momentarily crushed, let the failure humble you and fuel you. It’s character-building—the kind of gritty, unfiltered growth that makes you interesting (or at least gives you a hilarious story to tell at dinner parties).

The Three R’s of Rebounding from Failure

Now, I’m not about to leave you stranded in the middle of a metaphorical street. Believe me, there are tools for returning to your fabulous self after life takes a swipe at your ego. Here’s what I learned, broken down into three easy steps:

  1. Reflect
    Get comfortable with some post-failure journaling or introspection. For me, that moment on the pavement quickly turned into a mental inventory. Why was I trying to prove something to someone who shouldn’t even matter anymore? What was I avoiding by playing dress-up as my “perfect” self? Answering these questions takes honesty and vulnerability, but it’s incredibly freeing.

  2. Reframe
    Look at the flop as data, not doom. Imagine that failure is a neutral observer handing you a clipboard with notes. Data point one: Maybe those shoes were impractical, both metaphorically and literally. Data point two: Yeah, you relied on validation after a breakup rather than sitting with your emotions—mental note to stop that. Failure is just feedback in disguise.

  3. Reignite
    Okay, so you learned. Now what? Take the lessons from your embarrassment and make them count. For me, that meant putting the stilettos on eBay and signing up for a beginner ceramics class I’d been too “cool” to try before. It also meant asking myself how to truly “glow” for my own satisfaction instead of performing for someone else’s approval.

By the way, the friend I dragged along to ceramics still calls me “Picasso of Pottery Fails,” so you see, even recovery will have its imperfections. Own those too.

Failing as a Flex

Here’s the beauty of it all: failure is universal (and endlessly relatable, which makes it perfect fuel for cocktail-party anecdotes). No one exists on a diet of wins alone, and anyone who tries to appear like they do is likely one stubbed toe from their next humble pie. You, however, will be better equipped. Why? Because you’ve embraced what downfalls can teach us. You’ve let them make you sharper, funnier, and—dare I say—sexier.

When I look back on that infamous fall now, I laugh. Not just at the physical comedy of the moment but at the absurd ambition behind it. I wanted to be flawless when I should have been real. Instead of letting failure take my power, I’ve learned to harness it. I’ve started celebrating the messy, chaotic brilliance of trying hard and occasionally wiping out spectacularly.

So, to my younger self (and anyone else out there mid-faceplant), this is my ode to you. Failure isn’t the end, nor the defining moment, nor the last embarrassing thing that will ever happen to you. It’s just the first chapter in a long, hilarious story about getting up—better, bolder, and far more interesting than you fell.

And if you see someone tumble in the street? Offer them your hand. We all take our turns on the pavement, and it’s much easier to recover when someone’s cheering you on. Plus, you might make a new friend. Or at least get a great laugh.