My First Big Failure

I was 22 when I realized I didn’t know how to iron a shirt properly. Not exactly the opening you’d expect for a story about failure, but bear with me. That year, freshly graduated from college, I had landed my first job as a high school teacher in Houston, and I was ready to make an impression. Problem was, the only impression I ended up making came in the form of a scorched triangle smack in the middle of my recently purchased dress shirt. The culprit? Setting the iron temperature too high and my stubborn belief that breaking out the instruction manual was for quitters.

I laughed it off at the time because, come on, we’ve all ruined a shirt or two. But that moment set the stage for what became my biggest stumble a few years later—a failure to prepare for life’s heavier, bigger picture moments. Sometimes, all it takes is one wrecked shirt to clue you in that “fake it ‘til you make it” doesn’t always hold up.

Welcome to the Crash Course in Humility

Fast forward to my late twenties. By then, I had settled into my role as an educator—motivating my students and leading school efforts to support LGBTQ+ teens. I was good at what I did, and I started to think I had it all figured out. My ambitions grew. Slowly but surely, my dream of leaving Beaumont—of telling stories, speaking, and writing for a wider audience—was starting to take shape.

I had written a deeply personal essay for a small online magazine, which unexpectedly gained traction. Words of encouragement poured in. Literary agents showed interest. And when I finally signed a publishing deal for a memoir of my life and experiences, I felt unstoppable. I told myself, This is it. You’ve made it. The rest is just gravy. I was wrong.

Writing and teaching full-time became an Olympic sport with no off-season. Every spare moment outside the classroom I poured into my manuscript: late nights, weekends, early mornings fueled by cheap coffee and microwave dinners. Somewhere during those months, it hit me that my exhaustion wasn’t producing magic. It was producing mediocrity. My chapters read like journals—not stories—and my overarching ideas felt disconnected, rushed. As deadlines passed, panic set in.

I reached out to my publisher, hoping for grace. Instead, I got a firm reality check: “We need the draft. Don’t overthink it—just get it done.” No extensions. Worse, no clues about how to fix what was broken. I began to spiral. The thing I’d worked for—the dream of telling my story on my terms—was falling apart. I dealt with it by avoiding it, ignoring calls and emails while doomscrolling TikTok as if relationship thirst traps held the secret to solving my writing woes. Spoiler alert: they didn’t.

The eventual moment of reckoning wasn’t glamorous or cinematic. There was no romantic montage of me triumphantly typing a masterpiece at midnight. Instead, there was me crumbling on the phone with my dad, his voice steady as he said, “You can fall apart, but you still have to finish.”

So, What Did I Learn?

Failure humbles you. It slaps your ego and forces you to sit down and have a long conversation with yourself about what went wrong. Here's what I learned about resilience from bombing my first big chance—and why I’m grateful I did:

  1. Preparation Isn’t Optional
    Sometimes, you tell yourself, I’ll figure it out as I go. And sure, maybe you will—for small things, like meal prepping or navigating Ikea instructions. But when it comes to your dreams? Winging it won’t cut it. My failure wasn’t just about missed deadlines; it was about the false confidence I carried into that process. I hadn’t taken the time to map out what I wanted my story to say. I thought passion alone would carry me. Spoiler: it didn’t.

  2. Ask for Help (Before It’s Too Late)
    Had I brought in a mentor or colleague earlier in the process, maybe my writing wouldn’t have spiraled out of control. I’ve always been too proud to ask for help, a stubbornness born out of growing up needing to prove myself. But life has no participation trophies for those who struggle quietly. Asking for help isn’t weakness; it’s wisdom.

  3. Let Go of Perfection
    If Beyoncé, the queen herself, has admitted to flaws (“I’m a human being, trying to work through life”), why would any of us hold ourselves to impossible standards? I had been chasing perfection instead of progress, paralyzed by thoughts of “what will people think of me if I get this wrong?” Big hint: those who love you want you to win, not burn out trying to “wow” them at every turn.

  4. Starting Over Isn’t the End of the World
    After missing my final major deadline for the memoir, my publisher shelved the book indefinitely. That should’ve been devastating—and it was—for about a month. But not long after, I realized, “Hey, I still have my voice. I still have my story.” I gave myself permission to rewrite the manuscript completely, this time considering my parents’ sacrifices and the resilience they passed down to me.

Putting Failure (and Relationships) Into Perspective

Funny thing about stumbling hard like that: it teaches you to readjust your expectations in other areas of life, too—like dating. Just think about it. Relationships are full of small, everyday challenges that, if ignored, spiral much faster than you’d expect. It's like skipping the little yet crucial details in your own life. Remember my scorched shirt? It wasn’t just a wardrobe malfunction—it was a metaphor for failing to show up as my best self.

The same goes for love: skipping the prep work—whether it’s self-reflection, honest communication, or understanding your partner’s needs—can leave you in a mess that’s much harder to iron out later.

Key takeaway? Failure doesn’t define you, but how you react to it does. If you treat every setback as the end of your story instead of just a chapter, you’re cheating yourself out of the growth that could come after.

The Memoir I Didn’t Finish (and the Life I Did)

Now, I’d love to say I figured it all out overnight and went on to single-handedly reinvent love, life, and literature. The truth is, failure is an ongoing practice. Even today, I don’t “go big or go home.” I go steady, and when I fall, I get back up—the way my dad taught me.

Today, that once-shelved book is finally nearing publication, and I've come to terms with the fact that it’s not perfect. Neither am I. But we’re both authentic, which is better than perfect any day.

Looking back, that scorched shirt from my twenties feels like a silly memory now. But who knows? Maybe it burns brighter than any glowing success story ever could. Because sometimes, resilience is earned in the funniest, most unglamorous ways.

So go ahead. Fail spectacularly once or twice. Trust me—it’s the best teacher you’ll ever have.