Over forty-eight hours, I watched more tennis than I had across my lifetime. My wife’s local club team was playing in North Carolina’s state tournament just north of Charlotte, and I was privileged to spectate last weekend. Aside from one outburst where I yelled “Out!” as the opposing team’s ball landed narrowly beyond the baseline during a critical point, I was composed and observant, reveling in the gauntlet of competition sprawled across a half-dozen clay courts. The vibes were intense but sensible; racquet slams not as common as fist pumps, “Fuck!”s not as audible as “Let’s go!”s.
Still, the tournament declared its winners and losers, as the matches revealed various ways to play the game. Some players floated on the joy of the contest, discovering something of themselves inside the successes and failures, living outside the outcome. Others were enslaved to result, dejected by every double fault, then thrust into jubilation with the next ace, grinning arrogant smiles if they ultimately won their match.
To the whole range of experience, I could relate.
Now a few days after the tourney’s end—my wife’s team fought valiantly but came up just short of the state championship—the two of us were eating dinner on our porch last night, reflecting on the weekend, when my wife asked, “When you were younger, what did it mean for you to lose?” I could tell she’d been pondering the subject; having watched her play throughout our five years together, I appreciated how fiercely she competed over the weekend while managing to be graceful with herself after losing.
“A failure,” I said, pondering a glance toward our street where a neighbor and dog were walking past. “If I lost, I was consumed with never letting it happen again.”
Rationally, I understand that losing doesn’t equate failure. Emotionally, it’s hard to escape the totality.
When I went to medical school and finished a residency, without ever wanting to accomplish either of those pursuits, while paying the costs of those choices, it felt like I’d lost the match. I felt like a coward for not leaving sooner. A loser.
But could I have left sooner? Could I have played the game any different?
Initially, right after quitting my job, I was consumed with never letting it happen again. What was the it? The loss of who I was, the pain of defeat, the agony of failure. I was so hellbent on never letting it happen again that I brandished a reminder on my forearm (then wrote an essay on it).
The truth, as time has told, is much closer to Xander Schauffele’s remarks after winning his first major golf championship. A few weeks back, I wrote a newsletter about his perspective, and it bears repeating now. He was asked how he managed to deal with all of the setbacks across his career. How did you keep trying after failing so much? His reply was beautiful.
“You know, I tried to never see myself as failure. I always saw myself as a guy that was trying his best and just needed more experience.”
That assessment, when applied to my experience, feels so much more accurate than categorical failure. It’s honest, humble, and compassionate.
If that is quite obviously the wiser approach, why would someone, after losing, label themselves a categorical failure?
In my case—I can’t speak for the racquet smashers I watched last weekend—it returns to omnipotence. I thought I could control everything. I thought I could become a doctor and still be okay. When I couldn’t, that reality threatened my sense of who I was. So, labeling myself a failure allowed continuance of that omnipotent delusion. If it was all my fault, at least I was in control!
But did I control all the factors that led me into medicine? Not at all. Was I responsible for the shortcomings in character that led me to pursue something I never wanted? Maybe? Was I even aware of those shortcomings until I became a doctor? No, I was not.
If I’m unflinchingly honest with myself, I know it was necessary. It was never a failure. I didn’t need to learn how to prevent it from happening because as it was happening, I was learning. Like Schauffele, I only needed more experience. I had to become a psychiatrist, to realize I didn’t have to be a psychiatrist.
We of course play the game to win. But the point of the game is to obtain a deeper understanding of who we are. And if that’s achieved, how can anything be a failure?
It’s all discovery inside the game of our life.
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(Photo Caption: on the trail of discovery, circa 2017, Moab)
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