There are a lot of F words I really like. Family. Forever. Forgiveness. And if you’ve read my books, you know there’s another one I really like.
But failure is one I can’t stand. Just saying the word makes me cringe. I want to run away. Being a failure is something we can all relate to, and something we all want to run from. Because we’ve all been there. We all know how it feels.
In general, it sucks.
I have a quote on my desk. Zoe York said it during a podcast I listened to a few months ago. It gave me a chance to see failure in a different way…
Failure is the first step toward making something work for me.Zoe York
Well, damn. As soon as she said those words, I knew I had to write it down. I had to save it.
When we face failure, we have two choices. We can let it define us and cripple us so we never try again. Or we can fight. We can do as Zoe said and keep walking.
I hate to admit that for years, I chose option one. Failure knocked me down. It told me I wasn’t good enough. I was fired from a job and thought I wasn’t worthy of more. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t happy, I failed. And if I couldn’t do that, a job I was trained for and had been in for more than a decade, then how could I expect to do something else? How could I think I could make a difference anywhere else?
It’s a hard slog to believe failure is just the beginning. I’ve been trying to tell myself failure is the first step. That I have to keep going. Day-by-day, I get up, I push forward. There are days I want to let failure win, but it won’t. I won’t let it.
You shouldn’t either. Push. Fight. Work. And see your dreams come true. Then tell failure to go to hell, where it belongs.
Her eyes were watery and blood-shot, but she was still beautiful. She held his gaze. Desire pulsed between them. It wouldn’t take much for him to lean forward and claim her lips. To take what he wanted from her.
Her gaze darted to his lips, and she licked hers. Her breasts hitched with her breath. Every inch of him tightened, preparing to kiss her again. Ashleigh. His Ashleigh. His first love.
She leaned in, and his hand slid up her back. Her hair tickled his knuckles. She slicked her tongue over her lips and drew closer. Her breath whispered over his cheeks. His cock hardened under her thigh.
“Ash,” he whispered, his pulse pounding in his ears.
Nope, not his pulse. His door.