How I turned my failure into Motivation

I still remember the sting of that moment—my hands trembling, eyes locked on the rejection letter as if sheer disbelief could change the words. My dream had always been simple: to become a writer. Not just any writer, but one whose words could inspire, comfort, and stir the soul. For years, I carried that ambition like a lantern through the dark woods of life, believing that if I held on long enough, it would eventually lead me to something bright.

But in 2018, I hit what felt like the dead end of that path.

I had submitted a manuscript to a mid-sized publishing house after working on it for over two years. It was a deeply personal memoir—one that wove my father’s death, my struggle with depression, and my slow climb out of that abyss. Friends who read it told me it was powerful. A few even cried. I dared to hope. I imagined the book in people’s hands, perhaps helping someone else pull through their own darkness.

So when the rejection email came, stating that the manuscript “lacked the necessary structure and market appeal,” it hit harder than I’d anticipated. It wasn’t just a ‘no.’ It was a loud declaration that my pain, my words, my journey, weren’t enough. I closed my laptop, shoved the manuscript into a drawer, and decided that maybe the world just wasn’t meant to read my story.

For months, I did nothing. I stopped journaling. I avoided bookstores. I even ignored a local writing contest because I felt like a fraud wearing a writer’s skin. The failure made me question everything I had ever believed about myself.

It wasn’t a self-help book or some viral YouTube video that started to pull me out. Ironically, it was a broken bicycle.

My younger cousin, Arman, who was staying with us for the summer, had brought his old cycle along. One afternoon, he rolled it into the backyard, handlebars twisted, chain dangling, one tire completely flat. He asked me if I could help him fix it. I almost laughed—I’m not mechanically inclined in the least—but something about his hopeful expression made me say yes.

We spent the next two days watching YouTube tutorials, learning how to fix it piece by piece. We made mistakes. The chain popped off. The brake cable snapped. My fingers were black with grease, and I wanted to quit more than once. But Arman kept going, and slowly, his belief infected me. We fixed that bike. And when he finally rode it down the street, whooping and laughing in the sunlight, something inside me clicked.

The bicycle had been broken, yes. But it wasn’t useless. It wasn’t trash. It just needed time, effort, and patience.

So did I.

The next morning, I dug out my manuscript.

This time, I read it not as its writer, but as someone who had been broken and rebuilt—someone who now understood that failure isn’t a wall, but a stepping stone. I realized the rejection had merit. The structure did need tightening. Some chapters dragged. But the core—the raw emotion, the truth—was there.

Instead of giving up, I signed up for an online writing workshop. I submitted chapters anonymously to forums and accepted harsh, unfiltered feedback. I started waking up at 6 AM to write before my full-time job, not because I had to, but because I wanted to. For the first time, I wasn’t writing to get published—I was writing to heal, to grow, to become better.

In 2020, I entered a short story contest hosted by a small literary blog. The prompt was simple: “Write about a moment that changed your life.”

I took a deep breath and wrote about fixing the bicycle with Arman. About how it taught me to fix myself. It wasn’t a grand story. No dramatic twists or earth-shattering revelations. But it was honest.

A month later, I received an email that said, “Congratulations, you’ve won.”

It wasn’t a Pulitzer. But it was everything I needed.

That story was shared over 3,000 times on social media. I got messages from strangers saying it reminded them of their own journeys, their own brokenness and mending. For the first time in years, I felt seen. I felt like a writer.

Today, I look back at that first rejection with something close to gratitude. If they had accepted my manuscript, I would have never improved. If I had published that rough version, I might have failed harder, in public view. That failure wasn’t the end. It was a redirection.

Now, I write every day. I’ve been published in four digital magazines. I’ve mentored young writers who feel lost. Most importantly, I’ve redefined success—not as recognition, but as resilience. Not as fame, but as authenticity.

I still have moments of doubt. Impostor syndrome doesn’t vanish completely. But I’ve learned to use failure as fuel, not fear. Each time I stumble, I ask myself: “What can I learn from this? How can this help someone else?”

Looking back, I realize that most of us are taught to fear failure, to avoid it like a plague. But failure is often the best teacher—because it strips away the illusions and confronts us with the truth. It’s raw. It’s painful. But it’s also the beginning of transformation.

Here’s what failure taught me:

• Failing doesn’t make you a failure. It makes you human.

• Motivation doesn’t always come before action. Sometimes, you have to act first, and the motivation follows.

• Healing isn’t linear. Sometimes, it takes fixing a bicycle to fix a mindset.

• Success isn’t in being accepted. It’s in not quitting when you’re rejected.

If you're reading this and you’ve faced failure—whether it’s in love, career, art, or life—I want you to know: it’s not the end. It’s a detour. You’re not broken beyond repair. Like that bicycle, you just need time, patience, and maybe a little grease.

Pick up your tools. Revisit your dream. Start again.

Because failure isn’t the opposite of success. It’s part of it.