How to be a Failure and Still Live Well

How to be a Failure and Still Live Well Plot Summary

Introduction

In a world obsessed with achievement and success, failure has become something to be avoided at all costs. We are constantly bombarded with messages about optimizing performance, maximizing productivity, and overcoming obstacles on the path to greatness. This cultural fixation on success has profound implications for how we understand our worth as human beings and how we navigate the inevitable disappointments and limitations that characterize human experience. When success becomes the primary measure of value, failure is transformed from a normal part of life into an existential threat. This exploration challenges the dominant narrative by arguing that our vulnerability to failure is not something to be overcome but rather embraced as essential to living a meaningful life. By examining how neoliberal ideologies have shaped our understanding of success, analyzing the gendered dimensions of failure, confronting our mortality as the ultimate limitation, and questioning systems that promise control at the expense of humanity, we discover a different vision of what it means to live well. This alternative perspective suggests that our capacity for connection, compassion, and meaning emerges not from our achievements but from our shared vulnerability and interdependence.

Chapter 1: The Neoliberal Trap: How Success Became Our Identity

Contemporary Western societies have transformed success from a pleasant outcome into the very foundation of personal identity. This shift can be traced to the rise of neoliberal ideology over the past forty years, which has reshaped how we understand human worth and purpose. Under neoliberalism, as described by sociologist David Harvey, human well-being is conceptualized primarily through "individual entrepreneurial freedoms" within an institutional framework characterized by free markets and free trade. This economic framework has expanded beyond the marketplace to colonize all aspects of human experience. The consequences of this transformation are profound. When work becomes the primary arena in which we are expected to "produce, discover, and explore ourselves," our sense of worth becomes contingent on professional achievement. The entrepreneurial self emerges as the ideal, with each person expected to maximize their productivity, adaptability, and economic value. This creates immense psychological pressure, as evidenced by rising rates of stress-related illnesses. In the UK, over half of all work absences are attributed to stress, depression, or anxiety, with public service sectors particularly affected by this trend. Neoliberalism also fundamentally alters our relationship with failure. Rather than viewing failure as an inevitable part of human experience, it becomes something to be avoided at all costs or, when unavoidable, reframed as merely a stepping stone to future success. Entrepreneurs and motivational speakers promote this narrative, suggesting that "failure is not the opposite of success; it's a stepping stone to success." This perspective denies the reality that not everyone can succeed in a competitive system designed to produce winners and losers. It places the burden of failure entirely on individuals while obscuring the structural conditions that make certain forms of failure more likely for some groups than others. Hannah Arendt's analysis in "The Human Condition" provides a critical lens through which to examine this obsession with work and achievement. She distinguishes between labor (activities necessary for biological survival), work (creation of durable objects), and action (activities through which humans reveal themselves to others and create meaning). Modern society, she argues, has elevated work above all else, transforming humans into "jobholders" whose primary identity comes from their economic function. Yet work alone cannot provide meaning. It is in action—which "is never possible in isolation"—that we find fulfillment through our connections with others. This challenges the neoliberal emphasis on individual striving and suggests that meaningful human activity extends beyond the workplace. The neoliberal vision of success also reshapes our understanding of time and mortality. When life becomes a project of continuous self-improvement and achievement, death represents not just an ending but a fundamental failure. The finitude of human existence becomes something to be denied or overcome rather than accepted as the condition that gives life its urgency and meaning. This denial of limitation extends to all forms of vulnerability and imperfection, creating a culture where anything less than continuous growth and achievement is viewed as failure. The ultimate irony of the neoliberal trap is that in pursuing success as defined by economic metrics, we often sacrifice the very things that make life meaningful—connection, compassion, creativity, and contemplation. By tying our worth so closely to achievement, we become vulnerable to profound existential crises when we inevitably encounter limitations, setbacks, and losses. A different understanding of human value is needed—one that acknowledges vulnerability not as weakness but as the very condition that makes meaningful human connection possible.

Chapter 2: Gendered Failures: The Unequal Burden of Imperfection

The experience of failure is profoundly shaped by gender, with women facing unique pressures and standards that make them particularly vulnerable to being labeled as failures. This gendering of failure operates through cultural narratives about the body, reproduction, aging, and social roles that position women's bodies as sites of potential failure in ways that men's bodies typically are not. Understanding these gendered dimensions reveals how failure is not a neutral concept but one deeply embedded in social power structures. For women, the body itself becomes a battleground where failure is constantly threatened. From early adolescence, women are taught that their bodies must conform to narrow standards of beauty and desirability. The multi-billion-dollar beauty and cosmetic surgery industries thrive on creating and exploiting women's anxieties about physical "failures"—wrinkles, sagging skin, weight gain, and other natural bodily changes are framed as problems requiring intervention and correction. This creates a situation where simply aging naturally becomes a form of failure for women, while men are often celebrated for the "distinguished" appearance that comes with age. The cosmetics industry nurtures these fears, creating a market valued at $80 billion in the US alone, while women are "socially and professionally handicapped by wrinkles and grey hair in a way that men are not." Reproductive capacity represents another domain where women face gendered expectations and potential failure. The seemingly innocent question "Do you have children?" can trigger profound discomfort for women who have not had children, whether by choice or circumstance, as it touches on deeply embedded cultural assumptions about what constitutes female success. Women who choose not to have children are often viewed as failing to fulfill their "natural" role, while those who want children but cannot have them due to infertility or other circumstances may experience this as a profound personal failure. Even women who do become mothers face impossible standards of "perfect motherhood" that set them up for feelings of failure. The philosophical underpinnings of these gendered constructions of failure can be traced through Western intellectual history. Leonardo Da Vinci's "Vitruvian Man" visually represents the tendency to define "the human" through masculine attributes, placing the male body at the center as the exemplar of humanity while the female remains absent. Language reinforces this bias through the male generic—"he," "him," "his," "man," "mankind"—used to denote all human beings. Philosophers throughout history have reinforced this gendered understanding of success. Immanuel Kant claimed that men should strive for nobility, depth, and principled action, while women should be beautiful, charming companions. Female success was thus located in physical attributes—beauty, sexuality, appearance—rather than intellectual or moral achievement. Psychoanalytic theory suggests that male identity formation involves "standing out from" the maternal body, while female identity develops through identification with the mother. This difference has profound implications for how success is conceptualized. When success is defined as achievement rather than connection, it reflects a masculine paradigm that values separation over relationship. Arthur Schopenhauer went further, suggesting that even when deemed successful in "women's work," female success ultimately constitutes a form of failure. This philosophical tradition has created a situation where women are caught in a double bind—expected to achieve in traditionally masculine domains while simultaneously maintaining feminine qualities that are devalued in those same domains. The aging female body becomes a particular site of anxiety and disgust in a culture that equates female worth with youth and beauty. This disgust directed at the aging woman reveals deeper anxieties about mortality and the transience of life. By projecting these anxieties onto women's bodies, society creates a situation where women bear a disproportionate burden of our collective fear of limitation and death. Recognizing these gendered dimensions of failure is essential for developing a more humane understanding of vulnerability that acknowledges how social power structures shape our experiences of limitation and loss.

Chapter 3: Mortality as Failure: Confronting Our Ultimate Limitation

Death confronts us as the ultimate limitation that no amount of achievement, control, or technological innovation can ultimately overcome. Yet in contemporary society, mortality itself has been reframed through the lens of failure—as something that reveals the inadequacy of the individual rather than as the universal condition of all living beings. This transformation of death into a form of failure reflects our culture's deep discomfort with limitation and vulnerability, as well as the extension of neoliberal ideals of progress, achievement, and control into our understanding of mortality itself. The medicalization of death in modern society has transformed what was once an intimate, community-centered experience into a clinical, often isolated event managed by medical professionals. As longevity increases due to medical advances, it becomes easier to conclude that death can be indefinitely postponed or even evaded altogether. The wellness syndrome, as described by Carl Cederström and Andre Spicer, transforms health from a public policy concern into "a moral demand" every individual must embrace. Your body is no longer something given; now, it is something you choose to shape through proper diet, exercise, and lifestyle choices. Those who fail to conform to this demand—the overweight, smokers, drinkers, the elderly—are stigmatized as having failed to take proper responsibility for their health. The sociologist Anthony Giddens captures the challenge death poses for the striving individual of neoliberalism, describing it as "a point zero" that marks "the moment at which human control over human existence finds an outer limit." Rather than reflect on these necessary limits, death is framed as something that should be amenable to human control. Even medical professionals struggle with this reality. As surgeon Atul Gawande notes, "I learned a lot of things in medical school, but mortality wasn't one of them." The medical establishment, dedicated to fighting disease and extending life, often lacks the language and practices needed to help people face death not as a failure but as a natural part of life. The memoirs of those confronting terminal illness reveal both the extension of neoliberal ideals to the process of dying and their limitations when faced with mortality. Philip Gould, a key strategic advisor to Tony Blair, initially approached his cancer diagnosis through the lens of political strategy: "Everything I thought about the battle with cancer was strategic, as if I was fighting an election campaign." Yet as his illness progressed, his narrative shifted toward the importance of relationships and connection. Similarly, Kate Gross, who worked for two UK prime ministers before becoming CEO of a charity, expressed anger at the limitations of the neoliberal worldview when confronted with terminal illness: "I am not used to this uncertain terrain. In every other aspect of my life, diligence and hard work have been rewarded with getting what I want." Her experience revealed a life far more random and uncertain than the predictability promised by neoliberal recipes for success. The experience of loss—whether through death, illness, relationship breakdown, or other forms of limitation—confronts us with the reality that we cannot control everything in our lives. Joan Didion's memoir on the sudden death of her husband captures the shattering experience of loss: "Life changes fast. Life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends." The poetry of Donald Hall and Jane Kenyon similarly expresses the fragility of human bonds in the face of mortality. These accounts remind us that loss cannot be avoided—it is woven into the very fabric of the universe. When we attempt to frame mortality as failure rather than as the universal condition of all living beings, we create unnecessary suffering by denying the reality of our shared vulnerability. What these accounts of mortality and loss suggest is that our cultural avoidance of failure stems from a deeper avoidance of our fundamental limitations as mortal beings. By acknowledging these limitations—by embracing rather than denying the reality of loss and failure—we might discover a more authentic and meaningful way of engaging with life. As Didion writes about learning to navigate grief, sometimes we must "go with the change" rather than futilely attempting to control what cannot be controlled. This acceptance of limitation does not eliminate suffering, but it may allow us to engage more fully with the life we have rather than constantly striving for an impossible ideal of perfect control and achievement.

Chapter 4: The Control Paradox: When Systems Dehumanize Experience

Modern society has developed increasingly sophisticated systems aimed at minimizing failure, maximizing efficiency, and ensuring predictable outcomes. From bureaucratic structures and management protocols to metrics, algorithms, and data analytics, these systems promise to eliminate the messiness and unpredictability of human judgment. While such systems offer certain benefits, they also create a paradoxical situation where attempts to control failure end up diminishing the very qualities that make human life meaningful and rich. Bureaucracy represents one of the earliest systematic attempts to factor out human fallibility. Max Weber's classic account presents bureaucracy as an extension of reason to the government of human beings. Through hierarchical structures, clear chains of command, and specialization, bureaucratic methods offer the possibility of more "scientific management" of institutions. These structures make possible the effective management of resources and set parameters within which human failings can be contained and controlled. The appeal is obvious: by following established protocols, organizations can theoretically minimize errors and achieve consistent results regardless of which individuals are involved. However, Hannah Arendt's analysis of totalitarian regimes reveals the shadow side of such control. In her report on Adolf Eichmann's trial, she describes how bureaucratic systems allowed him to disconnect his actions from their consequences. Focused only on arranging transportation, Eichmann could ignore the effect of his actions on millions rendered "superfluous" by Nazi plans. Horror was reduced to neat lists of numbers on pristine sheets of paper. This extreme example illustrates a broader truth about bureaucratic systems: by emphasizing procedure over purpose and compliance over compassion, they can enable people to participate in harmful activities while evading moral responsibility. The bureaucrat becomes "a mere function" rather than a moral agent. In contemporary society, control is enacted less through external structures and more through self-discipline. Michel Foucault argued that power operates through the way we come to govern ourselves, with methods of control taught and internalized in "disciplinary societies." The neoliberal commitment to privatization requires us to rethink what control now involves, with different methods required to create the self-disciplined citizen needed by neoliberal economics. We become our own supervisors, constantly monitoring and optimizing our performance according to external standards of productivity and success. This internalization of control creates a situation where failure is experienced not just as disappointment but as moral failing. The quantification of human experience through metrics and measurement extends this control. When economics is the prime way of determining value, mathematics comes to hold "a general epistemological authority, regardless of the empirical matter being investigated." Success and failure are increasingly defined through numerical grades, with the suggestion that value can be shown through the simplicity of a number, figure, or grade. This creates what has been called a "metric assemblage" where numbers are trusted more than human judgment. The case of Professor Stefan Grimm, who committed suicide after being told he had failed to secure sufficient grant income despite bringing in £135,000 (just short of his target of £200,000), illustrates the human cost of rigid metric-based evaluation. When human worth is reduced to numerical targets, the complexity and meaning of human activity is flattened and distorted. What is lost when the messiness of experience is reduced to the purity of a number? What is lost when the human dimension becomes a problem to be solved? Arendt suggests that cultivating the impersonal makes possible greater injustice than in societies that do not depend on administrative processes detached from wider human life. In the desire to make the system the arbiter of value, humanity itself is diminished. The paradox at the heart of these control systems is that in attempting to factor out failure, they end up factoring out humanity itself. The qualities that make human life rich and meaningful—spontaneity, creativity, connection, moral judgment—cannot be reduced to metrics or contained within rigid protocols. As James Scott argues in his analysis of failed state planning projects, attempts to make complex systems "legible" by simplifying and standardizing them often destroy the very features that make those systems work. Just as monocultural forestry plantations are more vulnerable to disease than diverse natural forests, human systems that eliminate unpredictability often become brittle and dysfunctional. The drive to factor out failure through impersonal systems ultimately undermines our capacity for genuine human relationship and moral responsibility.

Chapter 5: Beyond Homo Economicus: Rediscovering Relational Identity

The dominance of economic thinking in contemporary culture has led to a narrow understanding of human nature and purpose. Under neoliberalism, humans are conceptualized primarily as "homo economicus"—rational, self-interested actors seeking to maximize utility and minimize costs in all domains of life. This economic lens frames success in terms of productivity, acquisition, and competitive advantage, while failure becomes a mark of inefficiency or poor resource management. However, this economic perspective fails to capture the full complexity of human experience and leaves many feeling alienated and diminished. An alternative framework for understanding humanity can be found in the concept of "homo religiosus"—the human as a fundamentally relational being seeking connection and meaning. This perspective does not necessarily entail traditional religious beliefs but rather recognizes that humans are "earthly beings" whose existence is characterized by interdependence and a desire for connection. The etymology of "religion" itself points to this understanding—derived from the Latin "religare," meaning "to bind" or "to connect again." From this perspective, humans are not isolated economic units but beings embedded in webs of relationship with others and with the world itself. The Latin "homo," meaning "Man," relates to the word "humus" or "earth," suggesting that humans are earthly beings, literally "beings born from the earth." This contrasts sharply with the entrepreneurial self defined by its willingness to "stand out" from the world. Rather than strive to distinguish ourselves from the world, there is an acknowledgment that we are fundamentally dependent. We are "earthly beings." What we have in religion is the attempt to bind oneself or to connect oneself—to bind oneself again—to the world and to others. Under this reading, religious practice attempts to reconnect human beings to the world beyond themselves. We are dependent on the world out of which we have been created, but there is also the suggestion that we are not entirely at home in this world. Psychoanalytic theory reveals how central loss is to the formation of human identity. Julia Kristeva explores the tragic dimension of the mother-child relationship, noting that "one does not give birth in pain, one gives birth to pain." For the child to grow and become capable of relationship, it must lose the original closeness of its symbiotic connection to its mother. Language, which enables the child to reach out to others, depends on losing this first relationship. This suggests that loss is not an aberration to be avoided but a fundamental aspect of becoming human. As Kristeva writes, highlighting how separation and loss are intrinsic to human development. This process of separation continues throughout life. In therapy, a common focus is on the need to free up experience when a person is stuck in destructive patterns of behavior. The work of therapy is to open up the possibility of new ways of engaging with one's world, recognizing that if we are to flourish, we need to make and unmake our experience of the world. Establishing relationship and identity requires becoming comfortable with loss. Loss cannot be reduced to something bad that we should hope to avoid. There is pain, but there is also, in embracing that pain, the possibility of new life: "There is losing and there is the transformative effect of loss." If we are to live well, we must find ways not of excluding, but of embracing, loss and failure. The relational understanding of humanity transforms how we view failure and loss. Rather than seeing them as individual shortcomings to be overcome through greater effort or better strategy, they become experiences that connect us to our shared human condition. Marian Partington's extraordinary journey toward forgiveness of Fred and Rosemary West, who murdered her sister Lucy, illustrates this perspective. In her letter to Rosemary West, Partington writes: "I have made choices in my life that have hurt other people... I know that you have known a lot of fear... Our lives are connected." This recognition of shared vulnerability and fallibility becomes the basis for a different kind of relationship—one based not on comparison or competition but on compassion. This shift from economic to relational understanding also transforms our approach to generosity and care. Under neoliberalism, philanthropy often becomes another form of competitive display, with wealthy individuals using charitable giving to enhance their status while maintaining fundamental power imbalances. Arthur Schopenhauer offers an alternative vision of compassion based on the recognition that "I feel his woe just as I ordinarily feel only my own." This form of generosity does not position the giver as superior to the recipient but recognizes their fundamental equality and connection. It is not about demonstrating success by helping those who have failed, but about acknowledging our common vulnerability.

Chapter 6: Practical Wisdom: Embracing Vulnerability as a Path to Meaning

Living well requires accepting vulnerability as an inherent aspect of human existence. Rather than seeing vulnerability as weakness to be overcome, it can be understood as the very condition that makes meaningful connection possible. When we acknowledge our mutual dependence, we create space for compassion, empathy, and solidarity—qualities essential for flourishing communities. This perspective does not eliminate the pain of failure and loss but transforms how we experience these inevitable aspects of life. Vulnerability manifests in our need for care throughout life, not just in infancy or old age. Illness, in particular, reveals our fundamental interdependence. Arthur Frank suggests that sickness acts as a reminder of mortality that opens up an important vista for contemplating our humanity. Far from being an aberration distracting us from health, sickness reveals "a common condition of humanity." In sickness, we discover "the common bond of suffering that joins bodies in their shared vulnerability." This recognition challenges the neoliberal emphasis on self-sufficiency and control, suggesting that our limitations connect us rather than diminish us. Conversation emerges as a vital practice for creating connection. Through language—whether verbal or embodied—we attempt to make and remake relationship. These conversations bind us to the world and create bonds between ourselves and others. They are more than incidental; they enable creative engagements with the world and have the potential to shape the political realm, for politics is nothing grander than the actions of "the social animal." In a culture dominated by monologue—where success is often measured by the ability to speak rather than listen—genuine conversation offers a different model of engagement based on reciprocity and mutual vulnerability. The philosopher Paul Tillich suggests that asking deep questions about meaning is exactly what we must do if we are to start out on the path toward a better way of living. These existential questions force us to consider our place in a world far greater than the structures and activities of human beings. They demand that we face the reality of our lives as creatures who live for a terrifyingly short space of time. Rather than distracting ourselves from these realities through constant activity and achievement, embracing vulnerability means allowing these questions to inform how we live. Accepting vulnerability also means acknowledging that we cannot control everything. As Joan Didion reflects after her husband's death, sometimes we must simply "go with the change." This is one of the hardest things to do when faced with loss. The world as we know it has been destroyed, and we must find new ways of living without the presence of those we loved. This acceptance does not mean passive resignation but rather a recognition of the limits of our control and the necessity of adapting to circumstances we would not have chosen. It requires what ancient philosophers called "practical wisdom"—the ability to discern what is possible and what is not, and to respond appropriately to each situation. The practice of forgiveness offers a path forward in a world where human beings are not perfect. Marian Partington's account of coming to terms with her sister's murder by Fred and Rosemary West illustrates the difficult work of forgiveness. Her memoir makes it clear that some failures matter much more than others—not those bound up with achievement or attainment, but those arising from the failure to treat others as vital, living, feeling individuals like ourselves who demand our care. Yet even in the face of such profound harm, Partington found that forgiveness was necessary not primarily for the perpetrators but for herself—to free her from being defined by hatred and allow her to live more fully. Perhaps most importantly, embracing vulnerability requires cultivating good relationships—with others, with the world, and with ourselves. The quality of our connections matters more than our achievements in determining whether we live well. When we accept our limitations and those of others, we create space for genuine encounter rather than performance or competition. This does not mean abandoning all standards or celebrating failure for its own sake, but rather recognizing that our worth does not depend on achievement or success. By accepting rather than denying our limitations, we open ourselves to a richer, more authentic engagement with life.

Summary

The cultural obsession with success and achievement has created a distorted understanding of human life that leaves little room for the inevitable experiences of failure, loss, and limitation. By reframing failure through the lens of relationship rather than economics, we discover that what we often try to avoid as failure actually contains the potential for deeper engagement with life. The experiences that seem to threaten our success—vulnerability, limitation, loss—are precisely what connect us to our shared humanity and to the larger world of which we are part. The profound wisdom emerging from this analysis is that our failures and losses are not merely obstacles to overcome but essential aspects of what makes us human. When we accept our vulnerability and recognize our fundamental need for connection, we create space for compassion, forgiveness, and genuine community. This perspective doesn't eliminate the pain of failure or loss, but it transforms how we experience these inevitable aspects of life, allowing us to find meaning and worth beyond conventional metrics of success. Rather than striving for an impossible ideal of perfect control and achievement, we might discover that a well-lived life embraces both joy and sorrow, success and failure, as part of the rich tapestry of human experience.

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Beverley Clack

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