When Failure Is the Main Ingredient for Growth

I’ll admit it: I was cocky. Not in the over-the-top, sunglasses-indoors kind of way but in the quiet confidence of someone who hadn’t yet tasted the bitterness of public failure. My parents, hardworking bakers who made flan that could bring people to tears, had instilled in me a sense that with grit and ganas (that untranslatable burst of willpower), anything was possible.

And maybe it was. Until I got the bright idea to open a restaurant.

The Overcooked Dream

You see, I’d grown up surrounded by the smells of warm guava pastry and café cubano from my family’s bakery in Hialeah. Food wasn’t just sustenance; it was a love language spoken fluently through flaky crusts and frothy espresso. As I transitioned into adulthood, I romanticized the idea of honoring my family’s legacy by opening what I lovingly called a “modern Cuban café” in Tallahassee, of all places.

It sounded like a Netflix plot nobody asked for. I envisioned hip college students sipping mojito-inspired mocktails while scarfing down croquetas made with the same TLC my abuela had poured into every recipe. My parents were skeptical—they didn’t understand the appeal of serving their classics with a highbrow twist—but they believed in me. What could go wrong?

Everything.

The Cafecito That Burned My Dreams

Opening day was a catastrophe of telenovela proportions. I’d hired an inexperienced kitchen team because I was eager to give people a shot (rookie mistake). Half the food came out cold, croquetas were burnt, and there was a horrifying incident with the oversized fryer that I don’t even want to relive. Then there was the décor: I was so enamored with “modern minimalism” that the space felt sterile, like an IKEA showroom that accidentally smelled of fried plantains.

But it wasn’t just the aesthetics or the clumsy customer service—it was me. I had no idea what I was doing. Running a household bakery and running a trendy café in a college town are not, I repeat, not, the same skill set. My parents had built their bakery on decades of consistency and grit, while I had waltzed in with Pinterest boards and zero restaurant management experience.

The reviews poured in like a hurricane, soaking me to my core. Some were fair critiques (“Confused identity: Is it fast casual or fine dining?”), and some were a gut punch (“A Cuban café where the coffee tastes like watery sadness—fix it or close it”). That one still stings. Within six months, I had drained my savings and had to shutter the place.

Lessons from the Ashes of Empanadas

At the time, the failure felt personal. Like I wasn’t just bad at running a restaurant but bad at life. I spent weeks licking my wounds, which mostly involved alternating between pints of ice cream and binge-watching Food Network as if Ina Garten could indirectly heal my pride.

But here’s what emerged once I stopped crying over spilt café con leche: that failure taught me resilience and a hell of a lot of self-awareness. Here’s what I learned—and maybe it’ll help you, too, whether you’re chasing new dreams or fumbling through the messiness of relationships:

  1. Passion Isn’t Enough Movies will have you believe that if you love something passionately, success will follow. Nope! Passion without preparation is like crema without espresso—fluffy but hollow. I should’ve interned at a restaurant, taken business courses, or at least consulted someone who knew what they were doing. Relationships work this way, too. Love is essential, but clear communication and effort are the bedrock.

  2. Check Your Ego at the Door Remember when I said I hired an inexperienced team because I wanted to “give them a shot”? The truth? I didn’t want anyone in the room who might call me out for not knowing what I was doing. Whether we’re talking about love or career dreams, letting your pride steer the ship will usually run you straight into an iceberg.

  3. Every Flop is a Flavor Okay, I’ll admit this sounds saccharine, like something printed on a mug. But it’s true: failure isn’t an indictment of who you are—it’s an ingredient for who you’re becoming. I learned how to laugh at myself (eventually). Now, failure doesn’t feel like the end but a sign I’m trying something big.

Humor and Healing

That failed restaurant is now one of my favorite stories to tell at parties. Like the time a college kid brought back a plate of tostones because they “tasted like sadness” or how I accidentally scared the health inspector off with my overly enthusiastic welcome…she thought I was hiding something. We Cuban Americans are masters of turning tragedy into comedy—look at any family gathering where the abuelos tell war stories laced with absurd humor. It took me a while to lean into that root.

Dating and relationships, I’ve found, aren’t so different. Every crash-and-burn moment, every messy miscommunication or ridiculously bad first date, adds spice to your life. That person who ghosted you? They're now just a funny anecdote (“His idea of a compliment was asking if my earrings were from Hot Topic. They weren’t.”). Your failures, be they in business, love, or life, aren’t meant to cage you in but build you better.

The Comfort in Starting Small

What I ultimately realized is that my parents didn’t put their blood, sweat, and guava syrup into the family bakery purely because they loved the work, though they did. They learned patience—the recipe for success often calls for long, slow roasting, not flash-frying. Now, when I feel like rushing into things (whether it’s a professional leap or an irresistible crush), I hear my father’s voice in my head reminding me: “No te desesperes, Raúl. Patience makes the dough rise.”

And wouldn’t you know it? Food ended up staying in my story, just in a less glamorous way. I became the self-declared family historian, documenting my abuela’s recipes and their backstories. That side project became the foundation for much of my writing today. It wasn’t what I expected when I locked the café doors for the last time, but life often gives us better gifts when we take stock of what flour and eggs we’ve got.

Your Failure Is Your Fuel

If you’re currently mid-flop yourself, let me tell you: the embarrassment fades, the lessons stick, and the laughter eventually finds you. Failure is just another chapter, not the final paragraph. Whether you’re dusting off from heartbreak, a career misstep, or an especially bad recipe, know this: failure means you dared. And that courage is worth celebrating, one pastelito at a time.