My friend Chris and I entered a club in New York City last year. I was scheduled to perform in a storytelling show, but we arrived early and found ourselves in the middle of a comedy show.
A comedian onstage was bombing badly. Suffering. Making the audience suffer, too.
“I want to go up,” I whispered to Chris.
“What?” he asked.
It was true. I wanted to take the stage and save the show.
Please note:
I had nothing prepared. I had no idea what I might do once I took the microphone. And although I perform stand-up comedy—just last week in Ottawa—I’m not great. I can hold my own and make people laugh, but no one leaves one of my shows thinking I’m hilarious.
Still, I wanted to go up.
I told this story to Charlie while we talked about the desire to stand at the plate in the ninth inning with the game on the line.
I’ve always wanted to be in that position. Last at bat. Final shot. Must-make putt.
When I competed in debate competitions in college, I was always the anchor.
When I ran the 4 x 100 for my high school track team, I always wanted to be the anchor.
When my Boy Scout troop competed in the swim carnival at summer camp, I always swam the marathon—the last event of the competition and the one that offered the most possible points.
Charlie thinks I’m crazy. He never wants to be in that position.
I was surprised, but based on conversations with others since then, fewer people want to perform when everything is on the line than I had initially thought.
Almost no one, at least according to my limited anecdotal survey.
And it’s not because I expect to succeed every time. Striking out is always a possibility, and I know that well. Missing the shot, failing to sink the putt, falling short of the finish line, and losing the game or match is always possible.
I could’ve easily bombed just as badly as the comic on stage that night in New York.
Still, I always want to be at the plate if the game is on the line. Regardless of the competition, I wanted to be the one to decide the game.
I wasn’t sure why this was the case.
I wondered if it was because I don’t trust others as much as myself in these critical moments.
Maybe I suffer from some ridiculous hero complex.
Perhaps I just love the spotlight.
Sharing this story with a friend last week, he knew the answer instantaneously.
“You’re not afraid to fail.”
As soon as he spoke the words, I knew they were true.
I don’t expect to be the savior in every one of these moments. I don’t expect to succeed every time. But if I strike out or miss the shot or leave the putt short or bomb onstage or otherwise fail to rise to the challenge and win the day, it’s okay.
He’s right. I’m not afraid to fail.
My acceptance that I can’t always succeed, combined with my general lack of concern for what others might think and perhaps a little too much self-confidence, allow me to fail without my failure to bother me very much.
That’s why one of my favorite performances is “Matt and Jeni Are Unprepared,” a show where my friend Jeni and I improvise competitive stories onstage without any preparation.
If I fail in this ridiculous highwire act, it’s okay. Failure is part of life and does not impact my sense of self.
Someone once told me that he stopped playing golf because he couldn’t break 100 and was playing with people who were routinely breaking 90 and even 80. He couldn’t stand to be the worst player in the group every time he played.
That was the case for me for at least a decade. I started playing golf with people who had been playing well for years, and it took me years — a decade at least — to produce semi-reasonable scores.
But quit the game because everyone hits the ball longer and straighter than me?
Never.
I felt sad for the guy. His ability to play a game he enjoyed was predicated on his performance.
He was afraid to fail.
My advice:
Don’t be afraid to fail. Life is much more fun and a lot less stressful when your sense of self hinges on the outcomes of your endeavors.
This isn’t to say I’m not sad, disappointed, or even angry when I lose, but my feelings about the loss remain firmly entrenched within the confines of the contest and dissipate quickly.
As Marcus Aurelius said:
“How easy it is to repel and to wipe away every impression which is troublesome or unsuitable, and immediately to be in all tranquility.”
Easy indeed.
Experience the disappointment. Perhaps learn something from your failure. Move on.
But I suspect that not being afraid to fail isn’t like a light switch.
You can’t just switch it on.
I’m not sure where it comes from, but it makes life a bit easier and perhaps a little more fun.
If you can flip that switch, I highly recommend it.
