By: Robert Rubinow, LPC
The addicted mind is permeated with thoughts that bend one’s view of reality into an unrecognizable panorama. These negative thoughts—like little seedlings deposited by our adverse experiences of the world, and often, the families or cultures we grow up in—grow over time into an interconnected labyrinth of beliefs with deep and hazardous roots, like a dense, defended forest not easily traversed.
Distorted beliefs prevent us from seeing clearly, from learning alternative perspectives that free us from self-defeating patterns, from receiving the love we so need and crave, and from aligning ourselves with a more realistic understanding of ourselves, others, and God.
One such belief championed by our surrounding Western culture is the idea that failure is not an option. Failure is seen as weakness, vulnerability, and the result of not trying hard enough. Just work harder, do more, expend more effort, and white-knuckle at all costs until success exudes from your pores. Unfortunately, this way of thinking does come at a heavy cost.
Though perhaps intended to inspire us to excel, I think this notion tends to have the opposite effect on us: perfectionism sets in, and all our energy is used up in trying to hold it all together. We quickly discover that willpower is an exhaustible resource. Failure becomes the doorway to self-loathing—and all the other negative thoughts and feelings connected to failure: “I am not good enough,” “I am not worthy,” “I will never be…”
In truth, the idea that we can never fail or make mistakes not only represents a distorted picture of reality, but a lack of insight and appreciation for the way human beings actually learn, grow, and succeed. Though we don’t wish to fail for failure’s sake alone, I believe shifting our focus to embrace what failure can teach us, influences how we can recover authenticity—and sobriety.
For one thing, failure teaches us to accept what is real about ourselves and the world, not an idealized (and idolized) version of life. When we can acknowledge imperfection as part and parcel of our experience, we become less frustrated and more grateful for all the good (whether large or small) that is here in the present moment.
No longer on the endless quest to be and have the best, failure instructs us in the art of appreciating the gifts of our own inherent imperfection and receiving the gifts of imperfection in others who love us.
This acceptance slows our pace, and we begin to enjoy the journey more without all the pressure to look good. Acceptance leads to serenity, patience, and a greater ability to “take the world as it is, not as we would have it,” as we move along the path of recovering our true selves.
Failure teaches us also that we are unconditionally loved, and that our worthiness is not dependent upon our performance, our accomplishments, or our ability to please others. Throwing off the notion that we are unlovable “as is” because we aren’t good enough breaks the power of shame and helps us embrace the fact that being good enough is an impossible prospect anyway. The joy, though, is learning to love ourselves as we are truly loved by God and others who know us—just as we are.
Finally, failure teaches us to surrender our powerlessness and ask for help from those who can walk alongside us and strengthen us. Rather than isolating in fear, we open ourselves to people who will come to know our faults and our deficiencies, but who will love us anyway. Healthy attachments are forged from the fires of pain, and as iron sharpens iron, so we begin to hone the edges that have become dulled by our addictions and by thinking we can do it all alone. It is usually in our brokenness, not our successes, that we receive the restorative gifts of being loved. I will leave you with one of my favorite poems that illustrates this beautifully.
At the Winter Feeder
by John Leax
His feather flame doused dull
by icy cold,
the cardinal hunched
into the rough, green feeder
but ate no seed.
Through binoculars I saw
festered and useless
his beak, broken
at the root.
Then two: one blazing, one gray,
rode the swirling weather
into my vision
and lighted at his side.
Unhurried, as if possessing
the patience of God,
they cracked sunflowers
and fed him
beak to wounded beak
choice meats.
Each morning and afternoon
the winter long,
that odd triumvirate,
that trinity of need,
returned and ate
their sacrament
of broken seed.