I started off 2018 with a whopper of a failure. A doozy.
I applied for my dream job. I made it to the second round. And although I came within 5 applicants of making it to the 3rd round, I was ultimately not selected.
My past self would have handled this like my world just ended. I would have allowed myself to sink into a deep depression and maybe I’d still be there.
I was sad and disappointed for sure. But instead of hiding alone with my thoughts – most of which were unkind and downright crappy – I reached out to my people and told them what happened. I got love and support that I really needed instead of wallowing in my own self-loathing. Which meant I was able to be disappointed Friday evening, and then I played Mass Effect, blew up Geth, and all was right with the world.
More importantly, I was able to practice the subtle art of not giving a fuck (THANK YOU, MARK MANSON). I tried. I came darn close. It didn’t work out.
As one of my beautiful friends said, “Fall down seven times, get up eight, Mimi.”
I wanted to slide into my old pattern of behavior of wallowing. But this version of me who has worked really hard to not be that person anymore couldn’t quite do it. I wanted to have the tantrum. I wanted to sulk and be depressed.
But I wanted, and want, to not be that person more.
This is the beauty of not caring. It’s not that I don’t care. I do, very much. But I can’t care so much that I can’t keep moving forward. I can’t care so much that I let this one little thing break me.
I haven’t blogged in a really long time for reasons, but I wanted to get back to acknowledging and celebrating failures. Failures mean you’re stretching yourself. You’re learning and growing, and trying new things. I would never have considered applying for this job just a few years ago, and it’s nice to see that I’m failing upwards.
So I leave you with the definition of existentialism from Morty Smith of Rick and Morty. My version of going to watch TV is that I’m going to go write.