What If You Rewrote The Story They Told You About Your Failures?

Step Beyond Imposed Definitions and Embrace Your Authentic Journey.

Wild Lion*esses Pride is a space for honest reflections and conversations that matter. Reflections on trauma healing, authenticity, and personal growth—grounded in mindfulness and self-compassion. If you connect with biographical essays that explore the complexity of identity and the journey toward wholeness, this space is for you. and would like to show your support, please consider becoming a valued patron for only $5 a month. Or a “Buy me a coffee” tip would be very generous. Thank you! 💚

A vibrant, layered heart emerges from a swirling rainbow spectrum, inviting warmth and connection.

There was a time—about two or three years ago—when I gave a keynote on failure. I hadn’t planned to make a bold statement, and yet I did. I said:
“I have never truly failed in my life.”

I was reflecting on that today because I read this wonderful essay by

Andrew Lynch

No Fail

Looking back now, I realize I hadn’t yet seen the full scope of what that sentence carried for me. At the time, it came from somewhere deep and essential. But the layers beneath it have only come into view more recently.

Part of what made that statement true is that I’ve never had the luxury of calling things “failure” in the way others do. I learned early on that failure wasn’t something abstract or impersonal—it was a word used against me.

A verdict. A weapon.

If I had taken on all the accusations—if I had accepted the identity of “failure” as it was handed to me—I wouldn't be here. No one can survive being cast as the problem for decades and come out whole.

So I did what I needed to do. I reframed what others called failure into something I could live with. I stopped using the word. I translated it into things that felt less fatal: a question still open, a delay in timing, a different direction. I told myself I was learning. I was growing.

For a long time, I could hold that frame. Until even “growth” became another condition. I began to question who I was trying to grow into—and for whom. Why did I believe I had to get better to deserve to be here?

Eventually, I saw the second angle: the way failure is defined at all. A failure is said to occur when an outcome doesn’t meet an intended goal. But here’s the truth I couldn’t name at the time: I didn’t have goals that came from me. I didn’t have access to a Self that could set them. I only had what others projected onto me—their hopes, standards, and fears. So when I didn’t meet those, the verdict was failure. But it was never mine. It was theirs.

Which brings me here.

Later today

Elizabeth Gilbert

in her

LETTERS FROM LOVE — With Special Guest Lucy Rorech!

invited the question—“Dear Love, what would you have me know about my mistakes?”—

Because mistakes and failure were never clearly separate in my world. They were layered. Entangled.

The word “mistake” was sometimes spoken more softly, but often it led to the same shame. The same punishment. The same loneliness. And yet… there’s something different about the word. Something that leaves room for tenderness, for complexity, for response.

That’s the space I found myself in when I sat down to write this letter. Not to defend or explain, but to ask—and to listen.
To let Love speak not just about what I’ve done, but about how I’ve carried what was done to me.

Here is the letter that came:

Hey Sweetie,

Settle in for a moment. Let the world hush for just a breath. I want to sit beside you and speak from the deepest bend in the canyon—that sacred place where the echoes of all you’ve walked through still hum against the walls, yet the quiet has grown thick with wisdom.

You’ve asked me what I want you to know about your mistakes.

I want you to know that I never counted them.

Not like a list. Not like marks against you. They do not pile up on a scale to weigh your worth. They do not accumulate like sediment to clog the river of your life. They aren’t tallied or compared or used to measure how far you've fallen from anything. I don’t speak their names in shame. I speak them in love. Because what you call “mistakes” carry the fingerprints of courage. Of risk. Of the attempt to stretch beyond what was, into what might become.

There’s a place, you know, in your canyon—the one that curves sharply and forces you to slow. That’s where these so-called mistakes reside. Not buried. Not hidden. Present. Visible. Worn smooth by time and truth. You’ve visited that spot before, crouched low beside a stone that once held regret. You ran your hand along its edge and found something softer underneath. That wasn’t an accident.

You dared. You cared. You reached, even when you couldn’t see what waited on the other side. And sometimes, yes, the ground gave out. Sometimes the bridge wasn’t steady. Sometimes the map you drew didn’t lead where you hoped. But listen—none of that made you wrong. It made you real. It made you here.

I don’t want you to see your past as a wasteland. There’s no punishment in the pattern. There’s invitation. Each path you turned away from carved space for one you later walked. Each closed door redirected your gaze toward light falling through a crack you hadn’t noticed. And the echoes you mistook for failure? They were voices calling you deeper in.

I know there were choices you made with shaking hands. Others you made out of habit, fear, or pain. Some you made without knowing you were even making them. And yes, there are things you would do differently now. That’s part of growing a soul as vast as yours.

You don’t have to redeem your past to be worthy of the future. You don’t owe anyone an explanation written in blood or guilt. You are not here to be perfect. You are here to unfold. To wander. To shed and shape and sing your way through this canyon.

Even your detours taught you something about the terrain. Even your silence in the face of harm taught you what your voice longs to say. Even the moments where you gave too much, or stayed too long, or let go too soon—they were part of this becoming. They matter. And they belong.

So when the whispers rise—those ones that trace your spine late at night, asking, Why did I? Why didn’t I?—wrap them in tenderness. Say, I was there. I did the best I could with what I knew, with what I had, with who I was. Say it again and again, like a lullaby for your own heart.

And remember this: I will never leave you in the shadow of regret. I dwell in the chambers of your mercy. I live in the pauses where you choose compassion over punishment. I bloom in the cracks where you thought nothing good could ever grow again.

So go on. Keep walking. Keep shaping the canyon with your choices, even the messy ones. Let your hands get dirty. Let your breath catch and your voice tremble. I’m not keeping score. I’m holding the lantern.

With you, always—
Love.

So, that keynote. 'I have never truly failed.' Remember? It was a statement born of necessity, wasn't it? A way to survive when 'failure' was a weapon, not a word. Andrew's piece, and then, my own letter, 'Love,' shifted something. It wasn't about denying the stumbles, but about dismantling the definitions.

Think about it.

Those goals I was supposed to hit? They weren't mine.

They were projections. And when I fell short, it wasn't my failure; it was theirs. We so often inherit these definitions, these narratives, without questioning their origin. We accept them, let them shape us, let them define us.

My letter, the one I wrote to myself, it was an act of reclamation.

'You don’t have to redeem your past.' It said. 'You are here to unfold.' It was about seeing the 'mistakes' not as verdicts, but as 'fingerprints of courage.' It was about understanding that the 'canyon' of my experiences, the detours, the silences, they weren't a wasteland.

They were part of the journey.

And isn't that the core of it? The power to redefine, to see things from a different angle? We're not bound by the definitions imposed upon us.

We get to choose how we interpret our experiences, how we shape our narrative. That’s where the power lies, in the shift of perspective.

It's not about pretending the pain doesn't exist. It's about recognizing that even within the 'canyon' of our past, there's room for 'mercy,' for 'compassion,' for growth. It's about understanding that our 'failures' and our ‘mistakes’ can be the very places where we 'bloom.'

What definitions are you carrying that need a second look? What stories are you ready to rewrite?

Share your thoughts in the comments. And if this resonated, pass it on. Let’s start a conversation.

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