When I was in grade school, damn, I could spell. I was the top speller in my class every year. I went to spelling bees. I won ribbons. I won medals. Despite being a very shy girl, I somehow mustered the courage to awkwardly step to the microphone at each contest as the rounds progressed and competitors dwindled.

Until my downfall. Fifth grade. Agriculture was the word. I remember repeating it, as you’re instructed to do, before attempting to spell.

“Agriculture. A, G, R…” Fuck. Fuck! It could be any vowel except “O.” It really could. I went with “A.” I was eliminated.

Pretty sure I cried. On the car ride home, my dad launched into his woeful childhood spelling bee tale of yore, in which he spelled “city” with an “s.” Sity was way worse than my multisyllabic-word mistake, so I felt a little better.

I’m writing about this today because I’ve been thinking about what it means to embrace the fall. To embrace failure. To recognize that without it, you’ll never get where you want to go.

I record dance videos because it makes me happy. It usually takes a few tries, sometimes several. I fall, I mess up, I don’t do it right. Until I do, and those are proud moments. They’re little and silly and I’m the only one who cares, but still, they’re proud. Each is a reminder that failure isn’t even that. It’s a reason to keep trying.