Not the Final Word

I've always been tenacious and have even been called stubborn on more than one occasion.

And of all the things my daughters inherited from me, they got that trait in spades.

It wasn't always easy, either.

Especially for my poor husband, who lived with three headstrong women who were about as immovable as a mountain once we'd dug in.

But like most strong traits, that stubbornness can be put to good use.

And one of the best examples I've ever seen happened when my oldest daughter was a sophomore in high school.

The charter school she attended had just partnered with the local community college to offer a Career and College Promise (CCP) program.

It allowed high school students to take courses that counted toward both their high school and college credits.

The ultimate two-for-one deal.

It could potentially shave a year or two off the cost of college tuition.

That was my motivation for supporting the decision.

My daughter wanted in because her friends were all going for it, and she'd get to leave campus to attend some classes at the community college.

Different motivations.

Same destination.

The requirements were a certain GPA, which she easily met, and a passing score on a placement test.

She breezed through English and Computer Literacy.

But math?

Not so much.

She fell just short of the required score.

Fortunately, she had two more opportunities to pass that section.

She began studying diligently, determined to get it right the next time.

A few weeks later, she took the test again.

And once more, she missed by an inch.

She was devastated.

But what really stung was that the teacher heading up the program had apparently lost confidence in her ability to pass.

I think, at first, that hurt more than the score itself.

Then I watched her do something I'd modeled many times but had never explicitly taught her.

She turned someone else's doubt into fuel.

She doubled down.

Hours each day were spent immersed in formulas and mathematical minutiae.

She lost sleep.

She postponed plans with friends.

She even missed a soccer game and several practices.

I'd never seen her want something more.

Finally, the day arrived for her third and final attempt.

As fate would have it, it was also the last day enrollment would remain open.

There would be no fourth try.

No extra time.

This was it.

I was every bit as nervous as she was when she left that morning.

I could hardly concentrate as I watched the minutes tick by, knowing she was about to find out whether all that hard work had paid off.

I refused to entertain the little voice whispering:

What if she doesn't make it? How will she handle that?

After what felt like days, my phone rang.

It was my daughter.

Her voice was shaking, and at first, I couldn't tell which way it had gone.

Then came the shriek.

And I knew.

She'd done it!

She swung by home, dropped off the paperwork for safekeeping (and framing, if I had my way), and headed back to the high school for her afternoon classes.

I could breathe again.

And I don't think I'd ever been prouder of her.

But apparently, the universe wasn't quite finished testing our family's resilience that day.

Just before the school day ended, my phone rang again.

My daughter.

Her voice was shaking.

But this time, there was no excited squeal.

The computer systems at the community college had gone down.

They couldn't forward her scores to the high school.

And enrollment closed that day.

After everything she'd been through, a computer glitch was threatening to keep her out of the program anyway.

"I'm on my way," I told her.

I grabbed the physical evidence of her success and headed straight to the school.

I arrived just as the teacher was preparing to leave for the day.

I handed her my daughter's scores and waited while she entered the information, ensuring my daughter a place in the CCP program the following school year.

And yes, I got to witness the surprise on the face of someone who hadn't expected her to make it.

That was a pretty satisfying moment.

Needless to say, we celebrated.

Hard.

The happy dance in the parking lot was nothing short of epic.

And oh, the ice cream we consumed that day!

But looking back, I think the most important part of that experience happened long before the celebration.

It happened after the first disappointment.

And then again after the second.

Because those scores told my daughter something very specific.

She hadn't passed.

What they didn't tell her was that she couldn't.

There's a tremendous difference between those two things.

And I think it's a distinction we sometimes lose sight of in business.

We launch something that doesn't get the response we'd hoped for.

We submit a proposal that isn't accepted.

We try to master a new skill and discover it's considerably harder than we anticipated.

We put in the work, and the results fall short.

Sometimes by a mile.

Sometimes by an inch.

And when that happens, it's easy to start treating the result as a verdict on our ability.

Maybe we're not cut out for this.

Maybe the goal was too ambitious.

Maybe the people who doubted us were right.

But an unsuccessful attempt doesn't necessarily mean nothing was accomplished.

We may have learned something.

Improved something.

Discovered what wasn't working.

Moved closer to a result we simply haven't reached yet.

Of course, perseverance doesn't guarantee success.

Sometimes the wisest thing we can do is change our approach, reconsider a goal, or recognize that something isn't right for us.

But there's a difference between making that decision with perspective and making it because disappointment has convinced us we're incapable.

A result tells us where we stand today. It doesn't necessarily tell us where we're capable of standing tomorrow.

My daughter didn't magically become good at math on that final morning.

She'd been building toward that result through every formula she practiced, every problem she worked, and every disappointment she refused to let become the end of the story.

The first two scores were real.

So was the third.

And when that final obstacle appeared, we found a way around it.

I think about that day sometimes.

The shaking voice on the phone.

The paperwork clutched in my hand.

The surprised teacher.

The ridiculous happy dance in the parking lot.

And I think about how differently that story could have ended if my daughter had mistaken either of those first two scores for the final word on what she could accomplish.

Sometimes resilience isn't about bouncing back to where we were.

It's about refusing to believe that where we are is as far as we can go.