Thoughts on failure | Helena Busia

I have always had a fear of failing. 

 I've found it to be my greatest motivator, and greatest curse, throughout my life.

I'm pretty confident in estimating where this fear stemmed from. I narrowly missed (And I mean narrowly- 1 bloody mark! Not that I'm bitter or anything...) the pass mark for the "Eleven Plus" exam. Just like that, I differed to all of my classmates who were deemed "worthy" of an education that I, somehow, was not deserving of. There, within that pale envelope, was the black and white proof that I was a failure. 

Ever since then, I have strived for near perfection, fixated on never having to experience that crushing feeling ever again. It's been a motivator throughout my life, providing me with the mantra "Why bother doing it if it's not done well". Largely, it's worked! Full marks in my English coursework and an excellent (bar maths!) academic record, I have found my perfectionism to work out very well, for the most part.

However, I was reverted to the vulnerability of my eleven-year-old self upon recently being rejected from a very prestigious university. By no means had I felt I had been destined to go to this university my whole life, but with the split second decision of deciding to apply, came the dull throb of "imagine" at the back of my mind. 

Imagine being the first person from my school to go to...

Imagine how proud my Mum would be...

Imagine being able to say I am going to study at...

I think I knew from the outset that this institution was not the place for me, but I became increasingly fixated on making sure I was "the student for them".  This was one of the best universities in the world, and so to me, it epitomised perfection; it epitomised what I desired most.

The most irritating part of the whole rejection process was that I was expecting an email to notify me of my result. I ended up spending (I shit you not) £17 (fucking) pounds on extra data to check my emails, begging my friends to remove my phone from me, only to turn into a savage beast, and clamour for it back. All of this to receive... a (fucking!!!) letter. 

What's more, upon receiving the letter, I had just put false eyelashes on, and remember damning the institution to the fiery pits of hell for making my eyelashes come off with tears.

Bastards.

Yet again, I felt like that chubby little eleven year old who wasn't worthy. I had failed.

 It took a few weeks (Who am I kidding? A solid two months) of licking my intellectual wounds, grimacing at the inevitable questions, and generally feeling a bit sorry for my self, to be able to say "Im OK about it".

I understand now, why I am not the appropriate student for that place. I do believe (sorry not sorry) that there is a certain "type" of person who thrives at these places, and I am just not one of those people- and do you know what? That does not make me any less worthy of an excellent education, at a university that I am beyond excited to start studying at (Grades pending *sob*).

And whilst I will never lose my perfectionism, I understand now that perfection is entirely subjective, and is never (really) attainable, but that does not mean I'm going to stop trying.

I think little eleven year old Helena would be proud of me. 

Thanks for reading! 

I hope you enjoyed it.

Helena x

Twitter- @they_callmebush

Instagram-@helenabush