Kind of a Wreck, Kind of a Leader

I don’t have to think long when someone asks me about a time I failed.
This one always comes up first.

It was during a season of my life when I didn’t hold a leadership title, but I was seen as a leader by some due to my role. I worked in learning and development, and I was asked to facilitate a session within a special leadership development program designed for individual contributors.

Only 24 people were selected per cohort.
These were high-potential employees who wanted to grow their leadership skills and learn how to lead from their seats without the title. My section was focused on People Agility.

It was such a meaningful assignment, and I poured everything I had into it. I created new content. I practiced for weeks. I had this vision of how moving and impactful it was going to be. I imagined people leaving the room changed. I wanted to tell the truth, that people agility is something we all have to work on, including me.

And then the big day came…

I started strong. But somewhere along the way, I began to realize I was running out of time. The leader I reported to at the time started giving me aggressive hand gestures from the back of the room. The program creator, sitting in the front row, tried to gently signal that I needed to wrap it up.

I was in the middle of the moment I’d been dreaming about and suddenly, I had to pivot. I had to abandon half my content, speed through the rest, and exit gracefully while choking down the shame.

When it was over, I didn’t want feedback. I didn’t want coaching. I didn’t need anyone to tell me what I already knew. I failed. I just wanted to go home.

I knew, I knew, that I had failed. That everyone in the room saw it too. The shift in my tone, my pacing, my confidence. It was obvious.

A few days later, we had a program debrief. I stayed quiet, hoping to disappear into the background of my own failure. The program manager pulled me aside to ask why I wasn’t contributing. I told her how I felt and that I didn’t want to facilitate that session again.

My leader approached me separately, offering critique. They said I should have positioned myself as the subject matter expert. That anyone facilitating a topic like people agility should speak with authority. Be the expert. But that didn’t feel honest to me. I wasn’t the expert. I was a learner, just like everyone else in the room and I wasn’t going to fake it.

And that was it. I decided I was done with that session. I wasn’t going to fail again. I didn’t have it in me.

But months later, as the next round of the program began, the same program manager asked me to consider facilitating it again. I said no. She gently asked me to think about it. And I did.

Mostly because I respected her. And maybe a little because I wasn’t ready for my story to end in silence. I tried again.

I reworked my content. I practiced harder. I timed every section. And when the day came, I facilitated the same session. This time, I stayed on track. It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t have to be.

Because I didn’t leave the room feeling like a failure.
I left feeling like a leader who had learned something.

Was I a failure the first time?
Maybe. Depends on who you ask.

But I was also the person who showed up again.
And that counts for something, too.