They pile up like so much rubble. Yesterday, I buried myself beneath them and was too stubborn to dig myself out again. It was the ticket, then my Open performance, then the bad-mom Saturday, and finally finding out that I had completely forgotten our farm pickup despite multiple reminders from A. All of this layered over my insecurities about my fitness and appearance and personhood made for a bad mood, to which I submitted the entire day.
I realized at the end of it that I really don’t know how to handle failure. Perhaps that is why I’ve so often chased success, and without relent. But avoiding failure is not always so cut and dry. And I do not do it perfectly.
My failure at failing gracefully is no longer an option. I don’t want to pass my shame, and my inability to handle it, to e. I don’t want to teach him that success is the lone goal of life. I don’t want my disappointment to fester and infect. I have to learn how to fail. I have to learn how to laugh at myself. I have to learn how to let it go. Apparently I should invest in a sparkly blue dress and a box or three of blonde hair dye.
Holy week is about humility. It’s past time I’ve learned some. I think that’s the root of it all: my insatiable pride.
I’ve got to learn count my blessings, not my failures.