Falling Forward

I used to think failure was the worst thing that could happen.

Maybe that sounds dramatic, but for most of my life, I measured success by how little I messed up. I avoided risks, made safe choices, and always had a backup plan. I believed that if I could stay ahead of failure, I’d be okay. But then I failed—big time—and everything I thought I knew about success, failure, and who I was came crashing down.

It all started with a dream I had carried for years: opening my own café.

Ever since I was a teenager, I had a vision of a cozy little coffee shop with warm lights, homemade pastries, and shelves of used books people could read while sipping their drinks. I spent over a decade working in hospitality, saving every penny, studying business on the side, and talking endlessly about "someday."

Then, in my early thirties, that “someday” finally came.

I found a small space on a quiet corner downtown, signed a lease, poured my savings into renovations, and named the café “Second Home.” It felt right. I believed in it with my whole heart. And for the first few weeks, it felt like I was living the dream.

But dreams, I’ve learned, don’t always unfold the way you imagine.

It started with slow foot traffic. Then a faulty espresso machine. Then a marketing campaign that fell flat. I worked twelve-hour days, seven days a week, trying to fix everything myself. I smiled for customers even when my hands were trembling from stress. I took out a small loan to cover costs. I told friends I was “pushing through.”

But the truth was, I was drowning.

Three months in, my savings were gone. Six months in, I had to let go of the two part-time staff I had hired. Eight months in, I closed the doors for good.

Just like that, the dream I had worked on for over a decade ended in silence. No grand exit. No big explanation. Just a note on the door that read, “Thank you for your support. We’re closing temporarily.”

It never reopened.

For weeks, I couldn't look anyone in the eye. I felt ashamed, hollow, and embarrassed. People told me I should be proud that I even tried. That most people never take a leap like that. But their kind words felt like empty consolation prizes. I didn’t want sympathy—I wanted my dream back.

I started avoiding people. I deleted my social media. I convinced myself I wasn’t cut out for anything bold or risky. I thought maybe I should just settle into something more “normal.”

And then one day, while packing up the last few boxes from the café, I found a small, handmade card wedged under the front counter. It had been slipped into our customer feedback jar.

In neat handwriting, it said:

"Thank you for creating this space. I came here every Sunday after my divorce, and it gave me comfort. You reminded me that cozy places and kind people still exist. Please don’t think this was a failure."

I cried right there on the café floor.

That note changed everything.

Because it made me realize that while the business had closed, the experience was not a waste. My effort had mattered to someone. My vision had reached someone. And more importantly—I had learned.

I had learned what it takes to run a business, yes—but also what it takes to rebuild after falling apart. I learned what resilience really looks like. I learned to ask for help. I learned that failing at something doesn’t make you a failure.

In fact, failing is often how we learn who we really are.

Over the next year, I did a lot of internal work. I took time to rest. I journaled. I reflected. I asked myself hard questions like: What did I truly want? What parts of that experience made me feel most alive?

To my surprise, it wasn’t the coffee-making or the budgeting or even the dream of owning a business that stuck with me—it was the community. The conversations. The quiet ways my café had become a refuge for people.

So, I pivoted.

I began volunteering at a local community center, organizing open mic nights, storytelling events, and small gatherings—spaces where people could feel safe and seen. I eventually turned those events into a freelance career in community outreach and storytelling.

It wasn’t the plan I had started with. But it was exactly where I was meant to be.

And none of it—none of it—would’ve happened if I hadn’t failed first.

The Moral:

Failure is not the opposite of success—it’s the path to it. It’s the teacher we often try to avoid but desperately need. When we fail, we’re given the chance to reassess, refine, and rediscover what truly matters.

Most of the world will tell you to avoid failure at all costs. But here’s what I’ve learned:

Failure is not the end. It’s the beginning of wisdom, growth, and sometimes, even better dreams.

So if you’ve failed—good. That means you tried. And in trying, you’ve taken a step that most people are too afraid to take. Now, take the next step. Learn. Grow. And fall forward.