The therapy of failure

Once I was taking a taxi to football training. I was already in my boots and kit, because there was nowhere to change. The driver noticed and got curious. Where did I play, who with, how seriously I took it. And then he asked: “So, are you any good?”

I thought for a moment and answered honestly: “Nah, not really.”

For the rest of the ride he chuckled at my answer with great satisfaction. He was delighted that I could admit so honestly and calmly that I wasn’t good at something. And that I didn’t stress about it.

I often think about that conversation and that reaction.

Ever since school, we’ve been taught that not knowing something or not being able to do something is bad. On your CV you’d better add a couple of years of experience, and your English had better be C1. On social media you should only post smart thoughts and photos from expensive vacations. And in general, in everything you do, you must appear (or actually be) the best. I’m prone to that kind of thinking myself.

But in reality — on a human level — people are quite warmly disposed toward those who admit their shortcomings. There’s no fun in kicking someone who’s already down. There’s even the Benjamin Franklin effect, which says that someone who has done you a favour will feel more warmly toward you than someone you’ve helped yourself. So asking for help is neither scary nor bad.

And doing something you’re not good at is actually a form of Alzheimer’s prevention. And of pride prevention, too.

I still play football pretty badly, but I go twice a week anyway. Every time, it’s a humbling experience. Can recommend.