After Falling Flat on Your Face, Try Again

The vulnerability of trying again after failing.

When I was little, I thought everyone had scars on their knees. I had taken many falls on concrete, rocks, and other surfaces that left their mark from playing outside, and it wasn’t until I was older that I realized not everyone enjoyed romping around outdoors. Some kids' knees were still perfectly intact. 

In case you don’t follow me on Instagram, I recently decided to start a new book project. (Woo!) For clarity’s sake, I will call this book #2, though I’ve started and abandoned multiple ideas. But this is the first book since Blueberries that I’ve gotten to a point where I have to finish it, and it’s bringing up conflicting emotions. 

For one, I had forgotten how much I enjoy writing books. There is something so satisfying about staying on one thread for a long period of time, plus I feel accomplished after writing such a long string of words. I’ve missed watching my word count slowly tick up.  

But there’s also the expectations. I can’t help but feel the hope of “what if this is the one that gets picked up 👀…” That hope is terrifying. Trying at something you previously failed at feels vulnerable. You know how badly it can hurt, yet you’re putting yourself in the same position. 

While I know more now than the last time I queried a book, the thought of putting myself out there again is scary. I was overly optimistic the first time, and I failed. If I had a tail, it would have very much been between my legs. I will never forget the burst of excitement mixed with a stomach pit seeing literary agents’ names in my email inbox, only to be heartbroken time and time again. 

While I don’t want to get ahead of myself, I would be lying if I didn’t say my goal for this book is to be published. But I also want to guard my heart. Isn’t this the same intuition that led me to crushed dreams and back to square one? 

Something about finishing this book feels like re-entering the arena from Theodore Roosevelt’s famous quote, more recently popularized by Brené Brown’s book, Daring Greatly:

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

Man, do I want to be the person that strives valiantly. But doing so would be a lot easier if I knew the outcome. I want this to be the part in the movie where the hero comes back stronger to win following a hard lost battle, but I don’t know where I am in the plot of my life. 

I know that I want to be brave, courageous, and optimistic about my dreams—and on good days, I can be. But others, the fear of “if this was meant to be, it would have happened already,” or “it should be easier than this,” takes over. 

When I am doubting which step to take, I often reframe the situation as if I were talking to a friend. So if that’s the case, I would say: 

Try again. 

Risk it again. 

Take the leap again. 

Put yourself out there again. 

Whatever it is that you can’t stop dreaming about, go again. 

I have to believe that things are put on our hearts for a reason, and even if things don’t work out the way we wanted them to, maybe the point of it was to become who we are supposed to be. 

We just have to keep showing up, bruised knees and all.