“I have spoken to our director and other therapists at the clinic, and we would like to make you an offer for the position,” I read aloud to my roommate with excitement as I opened the e-mail from my first potential employer. One job application, one interview, and the career I have worked for will finally begin.

I turned on the music and began to prep for my daily workout- something new since being unemployed for a month. I decided to begin a new regimen today, one that I had been putting off because I knew it was going to kick my ass, and that I may not be able to finish it.

During the sixth interval of pushups I got to the point where I had to stop. I shook it off and proceeded. My cool down included a walk through the stunning hills outside my San Francisco home, with views of the city that often lead me to reflection with their beauty. Towards the top as I was thinking about that set up pushups, I heard the words- “why do I rarely fail?”

I have lived under the belief that failure is bad, and means that I am unworthy.

I look back on my short life of 24 years and on paper, I’ll admit it is impressive. I have paid my way through undergraduate and graduate school,  completed a Master’s Degree, am beginning a profitable career, have maintained incredibly meaningful relationships, and have waded my way through (what I think were) some pretty terrible situations both personally and in my family.

I have been an athlete, a musician, a student, an employee, and a friend. Other people may look at my accolades and life accomplishments and think, “wow, she’s really got her shit together!” And, you know, I often believe that to be true.

But today, on that walk up the hill, I realized- I have never really failed.

Now I know what you may be thinking. “Really?  How could that be true.” Absolutely. 100% agree. I fail every day in little ways I am sure- as a good roommate, a good friend, a good human being.

But in the big things, the things by which I and others measure my worth as a human, I have not failed.

I have never been turned down for a job.  Never.

Every job I applied for I have gotten. I have never been turned down in a school application. I always got straight A’s. I always made the team. I always finish the workout. “I have spoken to our director and other therapists at the clinic, and we would like to make you an offer for the position.” First try.

Today- that 6^th interval of pushups- was one of those few times I didn’t make it. It may seem silly and simple, but to me it opened up a profound message about my life.

I rarely put myself in situations which I think I may not succeed.

Why?  Because I have been blessed with intelligence and talent, of which I honestly do not take credit for (thanks to the good ol’ Weeks parents).  I can pass by as an impressive human being.

But really, I function at a level in which I push myself just hard enough to be a cut above the rest, but not far enough to have potential to fail. I chose a career and graduate school that I knew would be easy (for me) and applied for a job that I knew I could get. I work out at a level at which others may not be able to achieve, but I rarely push myself to the point of failure.

I succeed, but I don’t necessarily excel.

I look at the pictures of models in magazines and think, “I work out, why don’t I look like that?” Perhaps it is because those individuals have pushed themselves to the point of failure, over and over, every day, until their body adapts and they finally succeed.

Some may say my lack of failures mean I am responsible and talented. I say it is a life without risk.

I am not too big to fail, but rather am too small. I hide under my God-given talents and abilities, but never push myself past them to the point where I won’t succeed- to the point of true growth. If I never failed, does it mean that I never tried something hard enough?

I believed that failure indicates an inadequacy within me, and looked at others who fail as weak. But today I realized something completely different. Failure- after everything has been left on the floor- is an indicator of a courage. An act of bravery. It means I have pushed myself past the point of my abilities, and can learn where my limitations are and grow from them. Without failure, how will I ever know what it takes to truly succeed?

So I challenge myself today- don’t be too small to fail. Be too big to succeed.

Shoot high, take risks, do something where you will probably completely fail.  Laugh. Cry. Move on. Grow.

Brenna is a young woman who has just finished her Master’s Degree in Occupational Therapy, and is embarking on a career working with children with special needs. Her goal is to facilitate opportunities for them to function at their highest level, while taking moments to learn from each brave teacher she encounters.

In the quiet stillness of the morning, you decided it was time to transition from the warmth of my womb to the world of wonder awaiting your arrival.  As dawn broke, the sun rose over the hills spreading orange hues that lit up the violet sky and turned down the stars.  Fifteen hours later, after the sun traversed the sky blazing the trail for the moon, your father and I held you in our arms.

You joined us on the eve of February 1st 2002.

We greeted you with great expectations.  We celebrated your arrival surrounded by your aunties and grandparents.  Feelings of joy mixed with exhaustion flooded my senses as I watched your father gaze down upon you.

That evening, in the quiet of the hospital, after everyone had gone home, your father slept in the bed while I rocked you in my arms.  I whispered stories of love in your tiny little ears of what I believed our life would be together.  In that moment, I had no idea how powerful a teacher you would be in my life.

Very early on, I knew you were a very special child.  The neurologist diagnosed you with autism at 2 ½ years.  I sat in his office feeling as though the air had been sucked out of the room.  And there you stood, watching the birds fly, banging your hands on the window just as you did moments before, completely unaffected by the label.

Nothing changed and everything changed.

I swam in the depths of sadness and grief for quite some time.  At times I felt like I was drowning, pinned down by the force of crashing waves, over and over again.  I fought the waves, struggled to breathe, so full of fear.

You waited for me, standing on the sand, gazing up at the stars, birds flying above, watching the whales and dolphins play; your faith in me never waivered.

You patiently guided me to find my way back home to love.

A beautiful, pure love swirls around you and engulfs anyone that comes within your realm of being.  You touch lives with the simplest of interactions.  At the grocery story, the park, Costco and walking down the street.  Anyone who takes the time to connect with you experiences the joy of wordlessness and is forever changed by your love and sensitivity.  You teach each person what it means to truly connect from a place of love and peace.

I believe you showed up in this world as a profound teacher. Oh how the lessons have come fast and furiously.  Feels like a space shuttle burning up through the atmosphere, thoughts surfacing and burning up with a greater awareness.

You’ve taught me love blows fear to pieces.

I’m deeply grateful you chose me as your mother and continue to teach me to listen and lead from the place of peace and clarity.  I support your journey every day with love and renewed hope for a day when autism will no longer be a painful struggle for so many.

Whenever I feel a bit stressed or out of sorts, all I need to do is take a few deep breaths, get present and share a moment with you.  You show me the way back to love.

Happy Birthday dear sweet Ian.

Love.