Redefining Failure: A Lesson from the Ice

I have always been proud of my kids. Proud of their kindness, their thoughtfulness. Proud of the way they treat others, the way they respect their teachers and coaches, the way they carry themselves in the world. And, yes, proud of the certificates that sometimes come home in their backpacks—Student of the Month, report cards. These are all things to celebrate.

But yesterday, in the middle of New York City, standing on the edge of an ice rink, I felt a different kind of pride. The kind that doesn’t come from recognition or achievement. The kind that sneaks up on you in the quiet moments when no one is watching, no accolades in sight.

It was my son’s first time on skates. He had earned a hooky day with me—a special reward for working hard in school and excellent attendance—and we spent the day exploring the city together. As we wandered through Rockefeller Center, he saw the ice rink and asked if we could skate. He rarely asks to try something new, so I said yes without hesitation, despite the fact that I hadn't skated in over a decade.

We laced up. We stepped onto the ice. And immediately, he struggled.

He held onto the railing, shuffled his feet, wobbled, and within minutes, fell. Hard. He got up. He fell again. He got up. He fell again. Over and over and over.

He was frustrated. I kept waiting for him to declare that he was done, that it was too hard. But he didn’t. He just kept getting up.

And I realized: This is what we so often get wrong about failure.

We treat failure as an endpoint. As something to be feared, avoided, minimized. We act as if the goal in life is to move through it as seamlessly as possible, stacking wins and avoiding anything that might leave us bruised. But watching my son yesterday, I saw failure for what it really is—a necessary part of learning. A piece of the process. A sign that you are trying.

He wasn’t worried about how he looked. He wasn’t embarrassed that other people were gliding past him while he clung to the railing. He wasn’t interested in being perfect. He was interested in trying.

What if we approached life that way?

What if we stopped measuring success by how easy something comes to us, and instead by how willing we are to keep going, even when we fall? What if we celebrated effort over outcome? What if we stopped seeing failure as a flaw and started seeing it as proof that we are stepping outside our comfort zones, that we are brave enough to attempt something new?

Eventually, my son started to get the hang of it. He never skated gracefully. He never moved effortlessly across the ice. But by the time we left, he could make it a ways without holding on. And more importantly, he left that rink knowing that failure isn’t something to fear—it’s something to move through.

I hope he remembers that. I hope I do, too.

Because the truth is, we don’t need to avoid failure. We just need to keep getting back up.