The F-word nobody likes

Failure.

Tuesday night, in a valiant attempt to bake my daughter a surprise birthday cake, I found myself knee-deep in disaster.

Again.

I’ve been here before.

It all started with my son's first birthday cake. I misjudged the flour-to-egg ratio and ended up with a number “1” cake so massive it could’ve had its own postcode.

We were eating it for weeks and my affection for cake promptly took a sabbatical.

Now, here I was again—at the familiar crossroads: abandon ship and declare birthday cake “so last season,” or roll up my sleeves and troubleshoot like a domestic MacGyver.

That’s when it hit me: this is the moment most of us avoid.

That sharp, uncomfortable edge where failure looms. We freeze—not because we can’t handle the mess, but because we dread what people will think when we do.

Somewhere along the line—probably around Year 4 or the first time you bombed a group project—you were told failure is “good for you.”

Right up there with broccoli, constructive criticism, and walking uphill in sideways rain to build character.

Teachers preach it.

Motivational posters shout it from every classroom wall. “Fail forward!” All shiny teeth and positive vibes.

But here's the thing: Kids don’t want to fail.

Nobody does.

Not when it means handing over a math test that looks like a crime scene in red ink.

Not when that awkward parent-teacher conference turns into a diplomatic summit—with your kid, hormonal and 14, awkwardly mediating between an exhausted educator and a parent just discovering the class average.

"Well, maybe if the teacher explained it better."

"Or maybe if my kid paid attention."

"Or maybe I just fade into the carpet and start a new life as a floor tile."

Sound familiar?

Failure sounds noble in theory.

But, in practice? It's inconvenient, messy and usually comes with a side of shame.

In reality it looks like setting fire to your son’s fourth birthday cake, having the smoke alarm join in the Happy Birthday song, and watching the cake launch itself off the tray and splatter across the dining table.

(My enthusiasm for cake baking really should have stayed on sabbatical. But then I wouldn't have learnt that 4 packets of celebration fountains stuck upside-down in the bottom of a rocket cake could cause explosive mayhem.)

We’re told that the best inventions came from failure.

Like Post-it Notes. Legend has it, some guy tried to make super glue and ended up with the most passive-aggressive tool for office feedback.

Genius.

And then there’s penicillin—discovered when a scientist forgot to clean up after himself.

If that’s not the most relatable "oops-that-worked" story, I don’t know what is.

But most of us aren’t trying to invent new polymers or change the world with office supplies.

We’re just trying to survive school, dodge interrogations, and pass Year 10 English without developing a stress twitch.

Here’s what they don’t tell you:

Failure is practice.

Failure is feedback.

Failure is the secret handshake of people who actually get better at stuff.

And yes, sometimes failure means standing in front of your class explaining why your science experiment exploded like a TikTok volcano while your teacher side-eyes you and your lab partner quietly deletes your number.

Failure is scary. Always will be.

But experiencing it—cringing through it, reflecting on it, rising from it—is far better than staying paralysed in perfectionism.

It's necessary, survivable and valuable.

Because only when you step outside your comfort zone do you stretch your limits.

Only then do you build your resilience, sharpen your creativity, and flex those problem-solving muscles.

Eventually, you become fluent in it.

Like, "Oh, that? Yeah, I messed that up. Learned something. Moving on."

When that learning kicks in, failure sheds its cocoon and emerges as experience—with slightly singed wings and a story to tell.

So, next time you feel anxious about not being good enough, go looking for something you’re not great at.

Something that challenges you. Something that might make you stumble.

And when you’re staring down a disaster—be it cake, a test, or life choices—don’t ask “Why me?”

Try reflecting on how much you've learnt and ask “What now?”

Because confidence doesn't come from avoiding failure—

—it comes from making peace with it.

It’s a life skill no one tests you on—but one we all need.

Nici

P.S.

Know someone who’s wrestled with failure, fire alarms, or the existential dread of parent evenings? Forward this to them.

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