“This is the kind of thing that builds character,” my dad said, handing me a paper towel as I stood in our kitchen, eyes glassy with frustration and cheeks flushed from humiliation. “Or at least,” he added with a smirk, “that’s what we tell ourselves when things go completely off the rails.” I didn’t laugh. Instead, I let out a dramatic sigh and sulked into my room, where I spent the evening reflecting on my first big failure: the epic disaster that was my high school attempt to run for senior class president.
Now, before you picture me as a young Reese Witherspoon in Election—methodical, overachieving, maybe even a little cutthroat—let me stop you right there. My campaign wasn’t fueled by ambition or school spirit as much as it was by…well, my friends daring me to do it. “You’re funny. People like you,” one of them had said, probably envisioning a few homemade posters and an easy win. Emboldened by their half-hearted pep talk, I decided to throw my hat in the ring. I was friendly and outgoing; how hard could it be to woo my classmates with a mix of jokes and charm?
Spoiler: Very hard. But the lessons it taught me? Worth every awkward misstep.
The Overconfidence Era
They say you don’t realize how naïve you are until hindsight gently (or not-so-gently) taps you on the shoulder. At the time, I thought my campaign would be a breeze. I asked my mom’s third-grade class for some markers and got to work turning poster board into what I thought were bold, inspirational designs. In reality, they were a chaotic mix of bubble letters, exclamation points, and slogans like, “Make Senior Year Less Lame!”
Let me tell you: charisma doesn’t translate well in 2D. My rival in this election—Derrick, the captain of the debate team—had posters professionally printed at his cousin’s copy shop. Professional. Printed. Posters. In Helvetica font, no less. His campaign oozed polish and poise while mine screamed “group project at 2 a.m.”
Still, I walked around school clutching a Sharpie-smelling poster like it was the Declaration of Independence, fully convinced my peers would appreciate my “relatable” underdog vibe. I learned very quickly that when it comes to winning people over, first impressions matter—but preparation matters more. Am I saying I lost because I didn’t use Helvetica? No. But I’m definitely not saying it didn’t contribute.
The Campaign Trail (AKA: A Cringe Compilation)
There’s nothing quite as humbling as standing in your school cafeteria, trying to hand out campaign flyers while your crush is very clearly pretending not to see you. I remember standing by the condiment station—equal parts hopeful and horrified—as people awkwardly mumbled “Thanks” while sidestepping me like I was handing them a street map to nowhere.
And then there was the speech. Oh, the speech.
In my infinite teenage wisdom, I decided to wing it. “Authenticity,” I told myself. If I just got up there and spoke from the heart, I’d win them over. But five minutes into my impromptu ramble about parking lot congestion and the shocking price of cookies in the cafeteria, I could feel the room shifting from engaged to bewildered. A girl in the back literally whispered “What is happening?” loud enough for me to hear.
Derrick, meanwhile, brought a PowerPoint. A PowerPoint with transitions. Suffice to say, he crushed it, and I couldn’t even be mad. I knew I’d lost the moment he threw in the phrase “comprehensive plan” and the entire student body nodded like we were at a TED Talk.
When Failure Stays With You
Unsurprisingly, I didn’t win. Not even close. In fact, I received what I’m pretty sure was the lowest vote count in senior class history. (The guy who forgot to give a speech still beat me. Let’s sit with that for a moment.) At the time, my humiliation felt soul-crushing. I'd flopped, and flopped publicly. Would people still take me seriously? Would they snicker in the hallways or whisper about my awkward campaign forever?
That wasn’t the case, of course. Just like your worst haircut or your most embarrassing crush reveal, people forget about these things faster than you do. But the sting of it—knowing I’d gone all in on something and still face-planted—stuck with me for years. I realized the hard way that failure, even when it doesn’t leave a permanent mark, has a way of clinging to your memory like gum on a shoe.
The Resilience Remedy
Years later, when I applied for my dream position at a nonprofit right after college, that same nervous energy crept back in. What if I fumble? What if I don’t measure up? What if my air-quote “authenticity” comes off more chaotic-casual than relatable-inspirational?
This time, though, I did the work. I prepped relentlessly—researching the organization, practicing my answers, even enlisting friends to lob me brutal mock interview questions. I didn’t cut corners, I brought my metaphorical Helvetica font, and I didn’t leave anything to chance. When they offered me the job, I nearly cried. Not just because I got it, but because I knew younger me wouldn’t have. Or at least, wouldn’t have done it right.
We don’t like to talk about failure as much as success, but the truth is, nobody gets to the good stuff without stumbling first. My run for senior class president didn’t teach me how to win, but it did teach me how to lose—and then how to learn. Preparation is key. Authenticity only works when paired with effort. And above all, no badly made campaign poster will ever beat a solid PowerPoint.
What Failure Has to Teach Us
If I could go back in time and talk to my high school self, I’d probably hand her a coffee and politely ask her to reconsider the parking lot rant. But more than that, I’d tell her this: You’re allowed to fail. In fact, you’re supposed to fail. It doesn’t mean you’re not capable. It just means you’re human.
So, whether you’re navigating your next relationship, career goal, or mildly chaotic life decision, here’s the takeaway: put in the work, embrace the setbacks, and never underestimate the power of a Plan B (and, yeah, Helvetica). Failure doesn’t have to define you, but it does have the power to refine you—and trust me, that makes all the difference.
