✨ What I Do When I Fail (Again)
Jul 16, 2025
How I process, reset, and turn it into something useful
Fail so many times that you stop being afraid of it.
Fail so many times that you have no choice but to keep creating and going after your dreams—because at this point, you’ve already failed today, failed six months ago, failed two years ago.
So why not try?
You already know the bottom. You’ve already felt the bottom.
And eventually, something happens:
You stop being so attached to things.
Because you’re so used to them leaving.
One job? Layoff.
Another job? Layoff.
A relationship? It ended.
A city? Didn’t work out.
After enough cycles, you stop taking it so personally.
You start to understand what resilience really means.
You start to develop a fast turnaround time for your own well-being.
You start to build an emotional, mental, spiritual, and physical playbook for when sh*t hits the fan.
Because now, failing is so normal you can almost laugh at it.
You’re like: Oh, here we go again.
My last decade was like this. My whole life has been like this.
So I might as well get up and try my best to turn today around.
First, I stay in bed.
I let myself lie there.
Because the truth is, when I fail, I don’t just feel this failure—I feel all of them.
They all come back up.
It’s like jabbing something straight into the heart, and it hurts. It really hurts.
So I stay in bed.
I cry. I feel sorry for myself. I let myself be small.
And then I wait until I’m hungry.
Until I remember that I need to eat. Shower. Be human.
That’s usually the first turning point.
Then I start analyzing.
I start in my head. I ask:
- What happened here?
- What is this teaching me?
- Was this failure something I caused?
- Did I self-sabotage again?
- Is this a rejection that’s actually a redirection?
- What’s the root?
And then I ask my heart:
- How do you feel?
- What’s still tender?
- What would help you rise above this?
And when I’m ready, I zoom out and write it all down.
I take a bird’s eye view.
I try to see the whole thing, not just the moment of failure, but the wider cycle.
What was I trying to do?
What part of me still needs healing?
What patterns am I done repeating?
Then I remind myself:
If I have the resilience and the creativity, I can keep going.
I can keep creating. I can try something new. Again and again.
In this lifetime, I get to do that. That’s kind of beautiful.
I prioritize health. Immediately.
Usually the day after something bad happens, I do three things:
- I booked an energy healing session.
- I make sure I eat three full meals.
- I schedule movement—yoga, gym, anything. Even if I don’t want to.
If I’m really in it, I give myself one more day. But I scheduled something that forces my body to move again.
Because I know how easy it is to spiral.
To lie there in sadness and self-pity and think that this is the end.
But no one’s going to come feed you. You have bills. You’re an adult.
Eventually, you have to move.
I clean.
After two days of being in a dark mood, nothing in my space feels good.
So I reset:
- I clean the kitchen.
- I light incense.
- I buy fresh flowers.
- I open the windows.
- I make it feel sacred again.
If my environment feels disgusting, I can’t feel clear.
So I bring beauty back into the space first.
I cut energetic cords.
This is where the spiritual part begins.
I write a letter to the person or the situation that hurt me.
I write everything I need to say. Then I forgive them.
And then I burn the letter.
I say, “This is done now.”
Not just with people—but also with jobs, cities, projects. Anything I’m still attached to.
Because if it still lingers in my head, it’s taking up space.
And until I let it go energetically, I can’t fully move forward.
My favorite visualization:
I sit in a prayer pose.
I imagine a cord between me and whatever I’m still attached to—
the person, the project, the failure, the memory.
I visualize cutting it with scissors.
And sometimes? It makes me throw up.
It makes me nauseous.
I physically feel it leave my body.
Then I imagine a door. I watch that thing walk out through it.
I close the door behind me.
I say to myself: “I’ve done the processing. I’ve written the letter. I’ve learned the lesson. This is done.”
Unless grief resurfaces later—which it might—I’m no longer letting this run the show.
I make a plan.
Spiritual practices help. But I also use my logical brain.
- I ask: What do I need right now?
- How long do I need to recover—realistically?
- What does moving forward look like?
And sometimes, my plan is: do absolutely nothing.
But it’s still a plan.
I give myself a time estimate:
A week? A month? Six months?
I name what I need. I let that be okay.
I choose who I talk to.
If I’m going to talk about this, I want it to be helpful.
I make a list:
- Who’s actually safe to talk to about this?
- Who won’t make it about them?
- Who can help me see it clearly?
Sometimes I don’t want to burden people. Everyone’s going through their own pain.
But sometimes, just one voice of clarity helps everything click.
If I can’t find that in a friend, I reach out to a healer. A coach. Someone who can hold space.
Final thought: You get to choose.
After enough cycles of disappointment, you get tired of feeling sorry for yourself.
You realize:
- No one’s going to come save you.
- Most people don’t remember your failures.
- They’re living their lives. You have to live yours.
So you get up. You make food.
You clean your room.
You put on real clothes.
You light a candle.
You book the class.
You breathe.
And you remind yourself:
You already know what rock bottom feels like. So now you have nothing to lose.
Let me know when you’re ready for Entry 3. This series is already powerful. We can shape it into a book, a workshop, a newsletter arc—or all three.
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