There’s nothing quite like sitting at rock bottom and realizing it’s not as scenic as you thought. My personal wake-up call came in college—a setting where failure often feels like a rite of passage, but in my case, it hit like a telenovela plot twist. There were tears, dramatic monologues to my best friend over café con leche, and a soundtrack of Marc Anthony ballads playing somewhere in my mind.

But let’s rewind.

I was 19, certain I could conquer the world armed with an oversized backpack, a shiny journalism major, and the kind of naive optimism that had me signing up to run for president of my university's cultural club. The Cuban-American Student Association (CASA) was like a second home—it was where we celebrated Noche Buena with pastelitos and dominos while debating whether Celia Cruz or Beny Moré was Cuba’s true musical MVP. Running for president felt like the natural next step. I had ideas: mentorship programs, salsa lessons on the green, maybe even a campus-wide domino tournament. What could go wrong?

Cue the plot twist.

I lost. And not in a close, dramatic-finish sort of way, but a gut-punch, landslide defeat that left me replaying the election in my head like a bad reggaetón remix. The entire campaign had been a series of miscalculated moves—overpromising on events I wasn’t sure how to organize, relying too heavily on friends to spread the word (spoiler: they didn’t), and not thinking through the competition. The winner? Amanda, with her impeccable PowerPoint skills, detailed plans, and a charisma so potent it could sell you a timeshare you didn’t need.

Losing was brutal. I felt like I’d let everyone down—my family, my abuela (who brought me homemade flan for “election week fuel”), my friends. But the hardest part was realizing I had let myself down. I spent days stewing in my emotions while watching excessive amounts of Grey’s Anatomy—because nothing soothes a bruised ego like other people’s fictional tragedies. I asked myself over and over: What went wrong? How did I miss the domino I tipped over?

Spoiler: that failure taught me more about resilience, leadership, and, oddly enough, dating than I ever expected. Let me explain.

Lesson 1: Know Your “Why”

One of my biggest mistakes was not clarifying my “why” from the start. Why was I running for president? Sure, I had good intentions—because pastelitos for all is never a bad platform—but my plan wasn’t grounded in a deeper understanding of the role or what I could bring to it.

Sound familiar? Like when you dive into a relationship because it seems “right” on paper but haven’t examined if that connection truly aligns with your long-term values? Not having clarity made me lose sight of the bigger picture. Relationships—just like dubiously-launched college campaigns—thrive on intentionality. The clearer you are on your why, the easier it is to walk in the right direction.

Takeaway? Before diving into anything meaningful, interrogate yourself. Why does this matter to me? Why am I investing time and energy here? The “why” is your compass. Without it, you end up wandering or, worse, losing to a PowerPoint genius named Amanda.

Lesson 2: Preparation is a Love Language

Confession time: I thought my enthusiasm would carry me through. I focused on personality over preparation and assumed people would connect with me based on our shared history in the club. That’s like assuming a relationship will thrive because you both love karaoke and tacos—it’s a fun base, but deep connections (or campaign victories) need more than surface-level charm.

Amanda? Oh, she came prepared. She had spreadsheets of event schedules, budget outlines color-coded to perfection, and printed flyers that didn’t smudge like mine did when it rained. Her charisma and organizational skills weren’t separate—they were intertwined, creating a force none of us stood a chance against.

The same goes for relationships: being deeply interested in someone is only the start. You have to do the groundwork—time, effort, communication. It’s about learning what makes them tick, following through on your promises, and showing you’re invested. Preparation (or lack thereof) speaks volumes.

Pro tip? Be the Amanda of your own romantic endeavors. Show up. Be consistent. And yes, maybe keep a spreadsheet handy—but for date ideas, not campaign strategies.

Lesson 3: The Domino Theory of Failure

Cuban holidays taught me two things: never underestimate the importance of cafecito and respect the domino table. The domino theory of failure? If one piece falls out of place, the others follow. I ignored the foundational parts of my campaign—listening to the voters, communicating my ideas clearly, and asking for help—and the ripple effects were monumental.

Relationships are no different. One misstep—avoiding tough conversations, losing track of each other’s needs—can send things spiraling. But here’s the silver lining: just as you can knock a domino down, you can set it back up. Every tumble is a chance to rebuild, stronger and more intentional than before.

The trick? Pay attention before things topple. Keep tabs on the little moments and ensure your foundation is steady.

Lesson 4: Resilience Tastes Like Cafecito

After my devastating loss, my parents reminded me of an old Cuban saying: No hay mal que por bien no venga. Roughly: “There’s no bad thing that doesn’t bring some good.” At first, I rolled my eyes. This wasn’t disastrous—this was my novela finale! But the saying is true. There’s resilience in failure, even when it’s bitter like black espresso with no sugar.

After crying my eyeliner off, I started picking myself back up the only way I knew how: small steps. I showed up for events. I supported Amanda’s ideas even though my ego begged me not to. And I discovered that by leaning into the work instead of sulking, people didn’t see me as the girl who lost—they saw me as someone who cared. As the semester went on, I got chosen to head smaller initiatives and even grew closer to Amanda. Turns out, she wasn’t my nemesis at all—she became my mentor.

Resilience is a skill. Whether you’re navigating rejection in a romance, career, or, say, a Cuban cultural event, you grow stronger when you throw yourself back into the mix. Pour that cafecito, adjust your crown, and remember: failure is a step. Not a full stop.

Conclusion: Building a Legacy, Not a Moment

Losing that election? One of the best things that ever happened to me. It taught me how to fall without breaking, how to recalibrate when life throws you a curveball, and how to find new ways to lead—even if you’re not wearing the “president” sash.

Much like dating, life doesn’t always give us what we want, but it has a way of nudging us toward growth. Whether your version of failure is being ghosted, fumbling a career opportunity, or losing to an Amanda, know this: it’s not the end. It’s the start of discovering what you’re truly made of.

Every domino falls for a reason. Build your stack back up, mi gente. You’ve got this.