Reading Abigail’s blog post inspired me to write a few post about failure. In this fast pace, ever changing world, there seems to be five new ways to fail everyday.

Between the media pushing us towards unobtainable expectations of physical beauty, our children shoving boobie trapped piece of electronics in our face, and the chronic chatter of naysayers, our day is littered with psychological landmines…

….and frankly, it weakens our self-confidence and self-esteem to the point we lose ourselves and fear dreaming beyond what’s in front of us. Instead, we reach for the easily obtainable and/or what will bring us the least criticism.

That, my friends, is no way to live. In fact, it’s not living at all—it’s getting by. Letting go of one’s preconceived notions of self is difficult, but doing so in a fishbowl surrounded by critics is brutal...especially when you share DNA. Painful, yes...but essential for growth.

My creed: Doubters are always lurking in alleyways. Don't ignore them; acknowledge them and keep moving. Nothing pisses them off like indifference.



"But Tracy, you're fearless."

No the hell I'm not!! Just because I'm not paralyzed by fear doesn't mean I'm fearless.

My grandmother is the quintessential Southern matriarch: well educated, controls a tight knit family, married well, church going  Eastern Star member, friend to all, enemy of none, patron of science at Tuskegee and Auburn University, she’s always done what was expected of her, and she's never closed the door on a stranger in need**.

With that said, my grandmother has a rebellious streak which we’ve inherited. We’re not burning down buildings, however, after much thought, we’re not afraid to try something new with full knowledge it may find little favor with others. In my grandmother’s case, this came in the forms of her participation in the Civil Rights Movement*, her friendship with Joseph Lister Hill, and her equal partnership in my grandfather and great-grandfather’s business. Remember, this is pre-civil rights Alabama.

A few years ago, we were talking about her past (one day I hope to publish) and she confided in me how  frightened she was during various intervals in her life and how she kept going because she’d rather be unsuccessful than regret not trying.

That’s the ‘rebellious’ tick she’s given us. And that's the purpose of my ‘failure’ posts. In the end, if one person finds a drop of encouragement from my posts then my little project would have been a success.





*Her father was a WASP, so by all standards her life was pretty cushy up there on the hill.

** She used to take in the ‘troubled’ boys who ran away from the reform school down the road from her house (she worked there for a number of years). She’d sit them down, give them something to eat, and talk to them. Then after the authorities promised to be lenient, she'd walk them back to the school (she's never driven a day in her life).

This happened EVERY summer when we visited! As children, we weren’t afraid of the escapees—we’d let them in, then go outside and play. They never hurt us—they simply wanted someone to listen to them, to treat them like humans. I remember a few of them called us little Brits because we 'talked funny'. To my six year old ears, I swore they said 'little bits'. Gotta love! :)

Click to read part two