We should all experience failure at least once in our lives. If we never fail, we’ll never truly understand the taste of success, let alone appreciate it. When things come easy, we tend to take them for granted. It’s only after we’ve stumbled, faced failure, and risen again that we truly savour the outcome.

My elder sister and I were in the same class, even though we were a year apart in age. (That’s a story for another time about how I ended up in her class!) She was the class topper. In fact, she topped the entire school in our 10th grade board exams. Academics, athletics, extracurriculars — she excelled in them all. A true all-rounder who, quite frankly, never knew what failure felt like.

I, on the other hand, wasn’t like her. I was above average in most things (except athletics and performing arts, where I was definitely below average), but next to her brilliance, I often felt mediocre.

I’ll never forget the poem Success is Counted Sweetest by Emily Dickinson, or the moment it clicked for me. Our English teacher had asked us to explain its meaning.

Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.

My sister, despite her flawless command of English, couldn’t grasp the idea. “How can someone who has never succeeded know what success feels like?” she asked.
I said, “It’s because they’ve longed for it. They know its value more than anyone who has always had it.”
I got full marks for that answer, and that felt sweet.

That one incident stayed with her. She kept thinking about it for days.

Failure also humbles us. I say this from personal experience. I loved my sister deeply, but I sometimes resented her quiet arrogance. It wasn’t intentional. When you’re always winning, you don’t realise how your confidence can sometimes turn into condescension. I was always more mindful of how others felt, perhaps because I knew what it meant to fall short. Maybe that’s why I was more popular with the juniors. They found me easier to talk to.

A friend of mine once told me, quite proudly, that he had never failed in life and would probably die if he ever did. I actually pity him. I pity anyone who’s never tasted failure.

Because failure makes us better. It forces us to dig deeper and evolve. It helps us set new standards for ourselves. When we succeed for too long, we forget what it’s like to fall. We lose empathy. We become distant, even arrogant. But one fall, just one, reminds us what it means to be human. It brings us back to earth.

I have no shame in admitting I’ve failed many times. I remember most of them vividly. I believe we shouldn’t forget our failures. They sharpen us. At the same time, I admit there were moments when I feared failure so much that I avoided opportunities altogether. I didn’t learn anything from those situations. In fact, I regret them the most, not because I failed, but because I didn’t even try.

One such moment is etched in my memory from when I was six. It was the selection round for the 100-metre race at school. All the six-year-olds lined up. There must have been about fifty of us. I started running and quickly fell behind. I ended up last. I didn’t even finish the race. It was just a heat, not the main event, and I’m sure no one noticed that I quietly stepped off the track. But I did. I gave up. And I’ve carried that moment ever since.
I never told anyone. I avoided running after that, not because I couldn’t run, but because I was afraid to fail again.

Looking back now, I feel like I should start running again. Not to compete. Just for me. To reclaim that moment and finally let it go.

Of course, we shouldn’t dwell on failure forever. We should learn from it, not let it paralyse us. If we keep agonising over the past, we drain ourselves of the energy we need to move forward. We only get one life, and we must live it well.

I’ve had my share of successes too. Some may see me as successful, others may not. But I know what success feels like. And I know how important failure has been in shaping that feeling.

I’m grateful for every failure. They’ve made me who I am. One day, I hope they become stories I tell my grandchildren. Not stories of shame, but of grit, growth, and grace.

P.S. My sister is no longer with us. She passed away when she was sixteen, and I was fifteen. She was my first teacher. And yes, she won the gold medal in that very 100-metre race I mentioned. She won every time she ran.