Around October last year I applied to participate in a leadership program offered by my university. It involved an all-expenses paid trip to London to meet university alumni who are now leaders in their field.
I made it through the first round of judging, based on my
submission of a quirky 30-second clip. The second stage involved a face-to-face
meeting with three university representatives. I had them laughing and nodding in
unison each time I spoke. I walked out of the interview and called Mum
exclaiming, “nailed it!”
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| The video I submitted |
Weeks later, I got a call from a lady advising I was unsuccessful.
I was attending a high-energy workshop at the time. I worried about re-entering
the room in case someone noticed my shift in mood. Before I even got off the
phone, I was wishing I’d let it go to voicemail. Like a moment out of Sliding Doors, I made a split decision to
ask her why I wasn’t selected before she could say goodbye. My voice sounded so
weak. I hoped to regain it while she answered, but knew I’d probably end up
feeling more hurt. The lady was direct with her response, explaining the panel
was concerned by my lack of clarity regarding what I wanted to get out of the
experience. I thought my answers demonstrated open-mindedness, but instead they
were perceived as uncertainty. I wished I could have my time again. That day I came
up with 100 alternative answers I could have given.
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| I had a Gwyneth Paltrow moment, but without the whispy do. |
Last month I submitted an application to participate in a
6-week youth leadership program hosted on a Japanese ship, with 150 others
attending from across the globe. I spent hours writing my application. I think
I read it around 10 times before emailing it off. A few weeks later, I was told
I had made it to the phone interview round. Up until then, I’d hardly thought
about my failed attempt the previous year. The lady’s feedback replayed in my
mind and riled my nerves. Hours before the interview, I hand-wrote my goals and
5-year plan, then propped the paper against my computer screen. There was no
way I was going to have them doubt me this time.
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| Not the actual ship, but you get the picture ;) |
Once more, the interview was comprised of three panel members.
It lasted no more than 10-minutes. Two of the members were Japanese, so I wasn’t
sure how my larrikin remarks would be received. I could hear them smiling
through the phone as they politely said “yes” after I finished each sentence. I
hung up the phone and thought to myself, “did I nail it?” I felt good about how
things went, but didn’t trust my judgement. I didn’t call anyone to report how
it went.
Today (one day later) I received a phone call from a lady
advising I was one of 11 selected to board the ship in January 2018. I giggled
into the phone like a school girl, which may have had the lady question whether
they made the right choice. She said they were impressed with how I conducted
myself during the interview, and believed I’d positively represent Australia.
So, there you have it. Now you know I am a closet failure. I
often wonder how only sharing our wins in life impacts on young people. It’s
pretty messed up to portray life as a succession of achievements. Hell, I’ve
spent countless hours writing emails gone unanswered. I’ve shared my ideas and
given handouts in good faith they might be appreciated, but haven’t gotten so
much as a thank you. People wonder how I get the opportunities I do, often
remarking how “lucky” I am; that’s because they don’t hear about the things that
didn’t work out, or the times I was “down on my luck.”
Next time you’re presented with a Sliding Doors moment like mine, ask for feedback, because you won’t
know what it’s worth until you’re back fighting on your feet.