Introduction: The Wave that Barreled Me Over

Failure has a knack for blind-siding us, doesn’t it? One minute you’re riding high on the crest of ambition, and the next, you’re face-planting into the cold, unrelenting surf of reality. My first big failure hit me like a rogue wave during what I thought would be the triumphant surfboard ride of adulthood: my debut novel’s book signing.

Picture this: a 22-year-old me, fresh out of college, with big-haired optimism and heels I’d never practiced walking in, perched behind a wobbling folding table in a local bookstore. I had posters made. I had bookmarks with my book’s title (and my name, in case anyone forgot it). I even brought my mom’s homemade lemon bars to attract a crowd because nothing says “literary genius” like baked goods.

And yet—nobody came. Okay, two people came: one was an elderly woman in search of the restroom, and the other mistook me for a cashier. At the time, this felt like the Pulitzer Prize Committee personally calling to let me know I’d made the short list for their “Never Gonna Happen” award. Today, I see it for what it was—not defeat, but a turning point. Let me tell you why.

1. Failure Favored the Bold (and Also the Clueless)

To understand why this moment gutted me, you have to know how much I believed in my book. It was everything I wanted to say about small-town dreams: tangled relationships, rusty Ferris wheels, and secret sunsets on wide, empty beaches. Writing it had been like catching lightning in a bottle, but publishing it? That was like catching lightning in a jar of molasses during hurricane season.

Nobody warned me how hard the promotional grind would be, but when the opportunity to do a solo book signing arose, I jumped in with both (unsteady) feet. I didn’t bother asking myself hard questions—like, “Is this realistic?” or “Do I have an actual audience yet?” Nope. My head was full of big-city dreams and those movie montages where shiny-eyed artists “make it” in one great leap.

So, when success didn’t sparkle on cue, it stung. For days, I wallowed. I questioned everything: my writing ability, my career choices, even my decision to wear a blazer to the signing when I was clearly more of a sundress kind of girl. It wasn’t just a failure; it felt like I was a failure.

But then, I started to unpack what really happened.

2. Lessons Learned in the Wreckage

Like an uncapped sunscreen bottle spilling into your beach bag, some lessons are messy but inevitable. Here’s what I took away from my public flop:

  • Failing Isn’t Fatal: Failure doesn’t mean the end of the road; it’s a detour. That book signing didn’t cancel out the hours of joy I’d spent writing the book or the pride of holding my finished work in my hands. It just told me the journey wasn’t a straight line—and maybe, I needed to find a sturdier map.

  • Do the Groundwork: Launching a creative project is like planting wildflowers. They don’t bloom overnight, and throwing seeds at the ground doesn’t guarantee success. My book needed more nurturing—say, connecting with book clubs, cultivating an email list, or engaging with readers slowly.

  • Humor Has Healing Powers: At some point—probably mid-lemon bar—I realized how objectively funny it was to sit there, surrounded by my extremely wishful (and overly laminated) flyers, passionately pitching my mom and a lost tourist. Seriously, what memoir doesn’t benefit from such a moment?

Laughing at your own expense is medicine. And no, not “I’ll laugh at this someday” laughter—this is the real deal, heaving shoulders and all. Start early.

3. Resilience is Built One Brick at a Time

Here’s the thing they don’t tell you: resilience isn't born in dramatic “Eureka!” moments. It’s brick-by-brick work, forged when you keep moving forward. For me, that meant taking a hard look at my goals and figuring out what really mattered.

I stopped arranging my expectations into perfectly Instagrammable milestones. Instead, I focused on becoming a stronger writer, bit by bit. I started taking risks in my work—not to chase prestige but to chase authenticity. I worked harder. And slowly, opportunities began to find me because I wasn’t so busy clinging to perfection that I missed them.

I also reminded myself to pause and appreciate the things I had achieved, like writing an entire novel at twenty-two (even if my audience at the time was literally me and one slightly judgmental cat).

4. Failure Connects Us All

Here’s an unexpected silver lining: failure connects us. Every island-sized insecurity you’ve ever felt? Thousands of people out there have felt them, too. In fact, failure is universal, no less a part of being human than falling in love or forgetting your sunglasses on a sunny day.

Over time, I’ve shared this story with others—would-be writers, young creatives, and, occasionally, the server at brunch (I overshare when the mimosas hit). Inevitably, they mirror my feelings back, telling their own stories of rejection and redirection. And every time, it softens my bruised pride a little bit more.

One friend told me about auditioning for a play and blanking mid-line. Another shared how they bombed their first solo at a jazz concert. These anecdotes shape us; they add color, dimension, and, dare I say, spice to the otherwise monotone scroll of life.

5. Rewrite the Narrative

These days, I look back at that disastrous book signing with fondness because it taught me the power of rewriting—not just stories but the way we perceive ourselves. What I’d once labeled “embarrassment” became “a hilarious and humbling experience.” What I’d dubbed “failure” transformed into “proof that I tried.”

And isn’t trying the whole point?

This lesson trickled into other areas of my life, too—like relationships. Have you ever had a first date so awkward you half-considered quitting romance forever? Because I have. (Ask me about the guy who showed up late and told me he’d prefer “more dates where we didn’t talk so much”...yep.) But these moments don’t define us. What defines us is how we rewrite the story afterward.

Conclusion: From Surf to Shore

That first big failure didn’t sink me—it initiated me. I learned to brave the waves, whether choppy or smooth, knowing that every stumble is just a step forward in disguise.

So, whatever failure has you feeling adrift right now, let me say this: it’s okay. You’re okay. Laugh if you can, cry if you need to, and when you’re ready, rewrite the narrative. Failure isn’t the enemy—it’s just the undertow that pulls you closer to shore.