Would you believe me if I said my first big failure involved green sparkly heels and a disastrous wedding speech? Stay with me—this isn’t the kind of story where someone stumbles into success after a quirky mishap. No, this was the gut-punch kind of failure, the kind that leaves you questioning whether you’re even cut out to exist in polite society, let alone excel at anything. But as humiliating as it felt in the moment, it set a foundation for resilience that I’ve carried ever since. Perhaps you’ll see your own stumbles reflected in it, and maybe even take a little solace in knowing that failure is often where our best selves begin.

The Glamorous Life of a 20-Something Mess

Let me set the stage: I was 24, freshly arrived in Paris after finishing my undergraduate degree. Life felt cinematic. I spent my weekends sipping café noisettes and my weekdays figuring out what exactly I wanted my life to be. That summer, my cousin Amal invited me to her wedding in Alexandria. It was a massive affair, the sort of event where half the city is related to the other half. Given my supposedly worldly, Paris-Polished aura, Amal asked me—no, begged me—to give a speech.

Now, you may not know this, but Egyptians love a dramatic moment. Weddings back home are part romance, part Broadway production. If I’ve learned anything from evenings spent listening to Umm Kulthum at family gatherings, it’s that emotion is the main event. Everyone expected tears, poetry, declarations of undying support and admiration. And me? I thought it’d be clever to make my speech “funny.”

And not just funny—I had delusions of being the comedic star of the evening, imagining Amal and her groom (a delightfully serious neurosurgeon named Osama) laughing so hard they’d kiss all over again. So, I jotted down a speech that I thought was edgy and clever, sprinkled liberally with jokes about Amal’s love of K-pop and Osama’s “mysteriously” large collection of hair products.

Spoiler alert: It wasn’t funny.

When Glitter Heels Can't Save You

Here’s the thing nobody tells you when you’re about to crash and burn: failure has a smell. For me, it smelled like two things—stage fright and my cousin's thick orange blossom perfume wafting off her bridal veil. As I stepped up to the microphone (wearing those green sparkly heels that I foolishly thought exuded confidence), I could already sense something wasn’t quite right. Maybe it was the grandmother near the buffet scowling at my shoes, or the fact that Osama, seated in the crowd, smiled the tight smile of a man who’s skeptical of what’s coming next.

Two jokes into my speech, I realized my audience wasn’t laughing. They weren’t even mildly amused. In fact, Amal looked horrified. Like, “how quickly can my husband annul this marriage?” horrified. By the time I ended with the sentence, “And let’s hope Osama learns to cook because Amal’s not exactly known for her time in the kitchen,” it was clear I’d bombed. My parents were in the corner pretending they didn’t know me. Even the DJ gave me the kind of pitiful look usually reserved for TV talent show rejects.

It was a five-minute speech. It felt like five hours.

How to Survive Your Epic Fail

If you’ve ever been in a situation like this—a meeting gone off the rails, an unintentional overshare in a new relationship, or, like me, a wedding speech derailing an entire room—then you know the only thing worse than failing is the immediate aftermath. My heart raced as everyone but Amal avoided eye contact. My walk back to my seat in those ridiculous heels felt like walking through wet cement.

But here’s what I learned on that paper-thin chair in the shadow of my social demise: failure is never about the failure itself. It’s about what follows.

Here’s what I did, and here’s how you can approach it if (or, let’s be real, when) failure decides to ambush you:

  1. Own It. Immediately.
    Take a deep breath and face the mess. As soon as dinner was over, I approached Amal. “I think my speech got lost in translation,” I said, attempting a sheepish smile. She burst out laughing—not at my speech, but at my attempt to brush off the crash. “Lost in translation” became our inside joke that night, and while it didn’t erase what happened, it softened the edges of embarrassment.

  2. Stop Reliving It.
    Failure has an infuriating way of playing on repeat in your brain, but here’s the thing: obsessing won’t fix it. Yes, I replayed the humiliation during the flight back to Paris, but the minute I landed (and had consumed possibly the best pain au chocolat of my life), I decided that specific failure was old news. This isn’t denial—it’s survival.

  3. Find the Lesson.
    Cringy episodes like mine are a waste only if you don’t learn anything from them. My key takeaway? Know your audience. You can’t assume what you find hilarious in Parisian cafés (snark, sarcasm) will translate in totally different contexts (like a deeply traditional Egyptian wedding full of relatives who take family honor very seriously). Also, sometimes green sparkly heels are not the power move you think they are.

  4. Let People Laugh At You.
    Not everything needs to be serious—especially failure. Somewhere between London and Cairo, I realized the whole thing was objectively funny. I’d tried to channel Amy Schumer at an event that called for Maya Angelou. So, I started telling my friends the story, adding dramatic flourishes. Ironically, what had started as a botched joke became a great one.

Goodbye Perfectionism, Hello Resilience

Here’s the truth no one likes to hear but everyone needs: you’re going to mess up. Awkward dates, job interviews that tank, ill-advised texts sent at 1 AM—you’re going to be cringe sometimes, and that’s fine. Perfection doesn’t build character, resilience does. My disastrous foray into wedding stand-up comedy didn’t ruin my life. It gave me perspective. It taught me that even the worst failures pass, and when they do, you usually find yourself stronger (and less reliant on overly sparkly shoes).

So, dear reader, if you’re coming to terms with your own “big fail,” just think of it as your green-heel moment. Embarrassing, sure—but also temporary, and probably something you’ll laugh about eventually. Failure might sting, but it has a funny way of shaping you into someone you’ll like even more. Embrace it, learn from it, and whatever you do, save your jokes for an audience that’s ready.

And for heaven’s sake, leave the shoes at home.