It’s tempting to start with a rigorous defense. My fragility is not the point of the story, so let’s dive into the background of my most public major embarrassment.
When I switched from the Marine Corps to the Army, I chose to be a truck driver solely because of the short training time away from my pregnant wife. (I still missed the birth of my first son by two weeks. Welcome to the military.)
My first assignment was with the 233rd Transportation Company. We drove massive M911 trucks capable of hauling the M1 Abrams tank. The trucks are so large that, resting my hand on the door window frame, my elbow was above the roof of a commercial semi-truck.
Many fellow truck drivers were naturals, many from growing up on farms. I definitely was not a natural. I had to think things through and needed practice—and I knew it. The company set up a truck rodeo competition. The unit set up the course early and told us we could practice on it. I had no intention of competing, but I did want to practice to improve my skills.
Unfortunately for my unit and me, there were no volunteers to compete. Thus, I was involuntarily volunteered.
On the day of the event, all the drivers, families, mechanics, officers, and even the post commanding general sat on stadium seats. Three truck teams competed, each with two drivers. Each driver ran the course alone, and the two drivers’ times were averaged. The course consisted of turning and backing challenges crafted from 55-gallon drums and boards. The idea was to be fast.
Fortunately for the event, I was the last of the six drivers to attempt the course. My partner did not do great. We were going to be last if I did not have a great run.
To put it bluntly, I destroyed the course. Even if I were to put it mildly, I destroyed the course—literally. I honestly don’t think there was a surviving board or upright 55-gallon drum. At least a couple of drums were no longer able to stand upright. On top of that, the air pressure in my brakes ran out almost immediately, locking up the trailer brakes, so I dragged the trailer through the event with smoke pouring from the unmoving trailer tires.
I could not have performed worse if I meant to.
After I finished, I ran behind the other trucks, as far as possible from the crowd and my own young wife, and cried.
Some days later, at formation, all six of us drivers who competed were given certificates. The commander saved mine for last—wisely. Like the others, he read it out loud, including the ending phrase, “His outstanding performance reflects great credit upon himself and the United States Army.” Discipline went right out of the window as everyone started laughing, some bending over with laughter—including me.
I left the unit before the next rodeo. The teasing was appropriate for what happened, and nobody suggested I shouldn’t drive the trucks anymore. Yet, I did not learn immediate, profound lessons. It’s not an event I look at for how it changed my trajectory, no special Thomas Edison quotes on the value of failure, no breakthroughs in my driving skills as a result of crushing boards and 55-gallon drums.
I look at it as a water power event. Like both the immense unseen power of deep water and the incredible power of steady water over time to cut stone, this failure subtly signaled to others in the unit that failure wasn’t necessarily catastrophic, even if embarrassing. I did learn driving skills from all the practice leading up to the grand disaster. I also strengthened my own willingness to fail. The laughter at the ceremony was highly cathartic. It remains an important event in my life beyond the memorable humor gained by survived embarrassment.
Failures will not always lead to exceptional gains clearly tied to that moment. Failures will not always be free of embarrassment or other costs. However, failures remain central to growth. Individuals and organizations who seek long-term success must embrace a culture of risk management that includes the possibility of recovering and growing from failure.