iChaplain

It took me five attempts to pass my driving test. Five. By the time I got there, the examiner and I felt less like strangers and more like colleagues who had been through something together. Each time I set off, I felt intensely nervous—almost the opposite of what you’d want in someone about to take responsibility for a vehicle. By the fifth attempt, I had reached a place of quiet resignation. I didn’t exactly expect to pass, and with that came a familiar sense of disappointment, and even of being a disappointment—mostly in my own mind. At one point I remember thinking, not entirely joking, that perhaps my true calling lay in pushing model cars gently around a table, where no one could get hurt. I share this not because driving tests matter much in the long run, but because many of us recognise the feeling behind it. That subtle slide from I failed to I am a failure. The way one moment tries to grab hold of the whole story, without asking permission. When Failure Feels Personal Looking...