Trial and Error

Everyone loves getting something right the first time. Like cruising through a series of green lights all in a row, a steady momentum built on repeated success is an intoxicating sensation. There’s also a different -but no less satisfying- feeling that comes from accomplishing something that took significant time and effort to achieve. Both of these emotional reactions can be incredibly addicting, and many people spend their lives looking for their next hit.

But what about when things don’t work out? You try something, and it falls apart in front of you. Sometimes we can chalk this up to our own inexperience or bad luck. But it’s those times when everything looked like it should work perfectly that we experience debilitating frustration when it blows up in our faces.

So what do we do? If it’s me, I usually run through a fairly regular sequence of reactions. First, I decide that the entire universe is against me and that I’ll be a failure no matter what I do. Second, I realize that I was being irrational, but maybe I was kinda right anyway. Third, I try to analyze why things didn’t work like they were supposed to. Fourth, I come up with a plan that I convince myself will work so amazingly that not only will it solve this problem, but all other problems that I have or will have. Fifth, I try the new plan, which either works and I experience heart-racing euphoria, or it doesn’t work and I start over again with my fairly regular sequence of reactions.

As you may have guessed, I recently went through something much closer to the latter experience recently. I thought my plan was perfect, and when I implemented it, even my most conservative estimates of success had me quivering with excitement. The results were crushingly underwhelming, which was made worse by the fact that this was my ‘nth attempt, and I had told myself I wouldn’t try again if it failed.

So what did I do? In this case, I did something that was almost harder than completely giving up on something. I swallowed my pride. I went to someone who had succeeded where I had failed, and asked for help. I even took notes on what I did wrong. Like rubbing alcohol on an abrasion, the process was painful, but cleansing. I learned what my mistakes had been. I saw that it could be done, and that I could be the one to do it.

I’m still waiting to see the results of my latest attempt. It’s the best attempt I’ve made thus far, and I’m proud of the good work I’ve done. Will it succeed? I really, really hope so. And if it doesn’t? Maybe I can skip to reaction number three.