Losing with dignity
I remember throwing tantrums and beating myself up for hours, even days if I lost to an opponent in my favourite soccer game, Pro Evolution Soccer, or if I misplaced an item or a gadget got spoilt. Heck, even coming second or third in class — something most people would be proud of or aspire to — was enough to send me spiralling. I was conditioned to aim for perfection — to be this flawless human who was always on top, never losing, never letting anything go wrong. I believed my success, my very essence, depended on it.
Somewhere along the line, though, something changed. I don’t know exactly when it happened, but I realize I’m no longer the tantrum-thrower I used to be. I don’t beat myself up when life throws me a curveball. In fact, these days, I find myself laughing even while losing a soccer match — or losing at life.
Last year, I lost my phone to water damage. This year, it happened again. (You’re probably thinking, “You must be careless.” Yeah, yeah, I know.) But on both occasions, I simply counted my losses and moved on. It didn’t bother me for more than a moment. My siblings, who remember how restless I used to get about such things, kept checking in on me, expecting some dramatic reaction. They were probably more shocked by my calmness than I was.
All I can say is, “Growth happened.”
Looking back, I think my obsession with perfection came from a place of fear — fear of failure, judgment and not being enough. But life has a funny way of teaching us that no matter how tightly we try to control things, some losses are inevitable. The real win is not avoiding failure but learning to fail gracefully and bounce back stronger.
Now, I’m more focused on what I gain from experiences, even the unpleasant ones. Losing my phone taught me to back up my data regularly and, more importantly, to let go of material attachments. Losing a game? Well, that’s just another opportunity to improve my strategy — or to laugh it off and move on. Every setback has become a lesson, not a life sentence.
Growth is a quiet thing. It doesn’t announce itself with a fanfare. Instead, it sneaks up on you, making its presence felt in the calmness of your response, the lightness of your heart, and the way you no longer let the small stuff weigh you down. And for that, I’m deeply grateful.
