For a long time, I thought I was doing what parents are supposed to do.
Whenever one of my sons was struggling with school or feeling discouraged about not mastering a new skill, I’d reach into my personal archive of accomplishments for a helpful story. I’d tell them about getting inducted into the National Junior Honor Society. I’d mention becoming editor of the school newspaper. I’d share examples of goals I’d worked hard for and eventually achieved.
In my mind, these stories were encouraging, evidence that effort pays off and that challenges can be overcome. My kids, however, seemed to hear something entirely different.
“I’m not as smart as you.”
“That’s not something I’m good at.”
I finally understood that my success stories weren’t landing the way I intended. What I saw as reassurance sounded like a comparison. They were hearing the polished happy-ever-after rather than the years of work, uncertainty, and even luck behind my accomplishments. They were comparing their messy middle to my finished product — and it was my fault for not giving them the full story.
I started telling them about times I’d failed, and everything changed
Then one night, I told them about the time I got a 10 on a physics test. Not 10 points off — 10 out of one hundred. My physics teacher joked that at least he knew I hadn’t cheated off my friend sitting next to me, who had gotten 100. “Nancy did 10 times better than you,” he said, when he handed me my test. It’s a quote that sticks in my head decades later — and one that I shared with my teenagers. They thought it was hysterical.
That story was followed by another favorite: the driver’s education instructor who screamed that I was the worst driver he’d ever taught. Sure, I’d just taken out three orange cones and created my own path around the blacktop, but it was still mortifying at the time. Today, it’s family folklore.
The more embarrassing the story, the more my teens seem to enjoy it. They will sit through an account of one of my teenage humiliations with a level of engagement I never get when discussing my achievements. They even ask follow-up questions. “What did you do?” “How did you get out of it?” They want details about how their seemingly put-together mom handled the worst embarrassments of my life.
And somewhere in there, I’ve realized they’re getting something from these embarrassing anecdotes that my success stories never provided: perspective.
They need to see that every failure isn’t the end
Teenagers today are growing up in a world where mistakes often feel permanent. Every awkward moment can be photographed, recorded, shared, and replayed. Academic pressure starts earlier, and the college admissions process feels more competitive. Social media provides an endless stream of people appearing to do everything better than you.
I remember feeling that way, too. The difference is that now, with decades of perspective, I know how many of the things that once felt catastrophic turned out to be completely survivable.
That failed physics test didn’t determine the course of my life. The driver’s ed disaster didn’t prevent me from getting my license. The embarrassments that kept me awake at night as a teenager have become funny stories I now tell over dinner. And when I share those moments with my sons, I’m offering evidence that failure is a normal part of being human.
Looking back has also had an unexpected effect on me. As I tell these stories, I’m often struck by how much fear I carried when I was their age, even without all of the added pressures of social media. I was convinced that every mistake carried enormous weight because I had nothing to compare it to. The idea of something going on my “permanent record” was so ingrained in me by well-meaning adults that I felt like I had to be perfect at everything for it to count.
And if I’m being honest, some of that fear followed me into parenthood. My sons don’t need me to be a flawless example of success. They don’t need a carefully edited version of my life where every challenge led neatly to an accomplishment. They certainly don’t need another person suggesting that achievement is the measure of their worth.
What they seem to appreciate is hearing that I’ve messed up, felt embarrassed, failed — big time — and survived. Maybe that’s because teenagers are already carrying enough pressure to get everything right. Or maybe it’s because failure stories have something success stories often lack: room for them to recognize themselves.
After all, most of us have bombed a test, made a bad decision, embarrassed ourselves, or fallen short of a goal. Those experiences are universal. And the real happy ending is that life kept going. That bad grade, embarrassing moment, or failed attempt doesn’t become the entire story. It’s just a chapter. And sometimes, years later, it’s the funniest one.
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