Running Toward Failure
How a 5K taught me to embrace my mistakes
Illustration by Roshni Capewell
Story by Ava Glaspell
No one likes to fail. It’s uncomfortable and often messy, but it would be hard to make it through life without a healthy dose of failure.
“I think it’s necessary for learning,” said Jodi Murray, a licensed clinical counselor based in Montana. “If we didn't have that opportunity and we won all the time, we rob ourselves of the opportunity to learn and grow.”
Before the age of 14, I hadn’t experienced any truly earth-shattering failures. The biggest ones were probably my decision to get bangs and my brief stint in middle school volleyball.
My freshman year of high school, I joined the cross-country team with absolutely no experience in distance running.
To prepare for the annual time trial, we started having practices a full month before school began. The time trial was a 5k that the whole team ran, to get baseline times before the first meet. It was a notoriously hilly course, structured so that you had to go up the steepest hill not one time but two. When asked about the course, more seasoned runners on the team would just give a wry chuckle and shake their heads.
In preparation for this highly anticipated event, my friend and I used our valuable training days to run to the local Safeway, conveniently located less than a mile from the locker rooms. While the rest of the team set out to do hill drills, the two of us broke away from the pack to eat Oreos and watch reruns of “Guy’s Grocery Games,” nestled snugly in the cracked, fake-leather chairs of the Safeway deli.
As the team gathered to stretch, sweaty and tired, we would rejoin with suspiciously fresh faces, half-finished snacks stuffed into our sports bras and pockets.
On a sunny Saturday morning in late September, the day of the time trial finally arrived. My mom dropped me off with a peanut butter sandwich and a few words of encouragement. I nervously joined the crowd of high schoolers bouncing through warm-up drills. We were instructed to gather behind a white line spray-painted across the dewy grass. The starting gun sounded, and we were off.
I made it less than a mile before my confidence began to waver. I plastered a peppy smile on my face and fought to keep up with my teammates, who, miraculously, did not seem to be struggling to inflate their lungs.
When they tried asking me questions, I simply nodded and waved my hands enthusiastically.
Two miles in, I found myself at the back of the pack.
My friend began to look over her shoulder with concern, but I waved her on ahead. Just leave me, I wanted to tell her. Save yourself.
Three miles in, the urge to collapse on the spot had passed. I instead wanted to keep running, away from the course and away from the stares of parents and peers, past the Safeway, into my house and straight to my bed.
After what seemed like an eternity, I trotted through the bright red inflatable arch that marked the finish line.
To my horror, I had come in dead last. Out of more than 100 kids.
Even though at 14 I viewed this as the single most humiliating experience of my young life, I stayed on the team. The next week, at practice, I decided to forgo the beige comfort of the Safeway and actually join my teammates running laps.
For the rest of the season, I attended almost every practice. I even began to enjoy myself at the meets. Since the chances of me having sprouted new legs overnight were pretty much nil, I was pretty confident I wouldn’t be sweeping any podiums. While my teammates were busy warming up and going over strategy with coaches, I was concerned with more pressing details, such as perfectly french-braiding my hair and adorning my cheeks with patchy glitter.
Again and again, I was forced to confront my failure, with daily practices, time trials, and competitions every other weekend. While that season did not lead me to an all-star career in running, it did show me what I am capable of, and it taught me to be less afraid of failure.
If I could do something hard — something I was bad at — every single day, and still survive, it made everything else in my life seem easier.
That 5k was not the last major failure of my life. I’ve come in last in school, in job hunts, even in a relationship. As uncomfortable as these experiences have been, I would not be the person I am today without all of my failures. But if failure is so important to development, why am I still so afraid to confront it?
“I think so much of our identity is wrapped up in the sport or the skill, the academic, the job,” Murray said. “So if we fail, then who are we?”
When we fail, we don’t always have the right coping mechanisms to deal with our feelings, which adds another element of fear, Murray noted. “We can tell people not to feel bad that they failed, or that this is a growth opportunity, but when they're in it, in that moment, it doesn't really feel like [a growth opportunity].”
Dealing with failure might take time, but when we embrace the journey and try to see the value in the experience, we can start to grow, Murray said.
I still go on runs to this day. When I am not surrounded by crowds of pale teenagers in small shorts, I actually find it somewhat peaceful. I blast my favorite music and go as slow as I want, unpressured by the watchful eyes of coaches and teammates. And if I happen to pass a Safeway, I might stop for some treats before going out and running on toward my next failure.