The Calling

Failure Is Always an Option?

I’ve failed more times than I can count.

Not in the kind of ways that show up on performance reviews or make the evening news—but in the quiet, personal ways. In the gym, under a barbell I couldn’t lift back up. On the fireground, when I called a play that didn’t work. In leadership, when I let my emotions cloud my judgment, or held my tongue when I should’ve spoken.

We don’t talk about those moments enough. In this profession, we like to project strength. Control. Confidence. But here’s the truth: failure is not only possible—it’s inevitable. And if you’re doing it right, failure is frequent.

I used to struggle with squats. No matter how hard I trained, I could never seem to break past my ceiling. I’d load up the bar, drop down into the hole, and stall halfway up. Legs shaking. Back screaming. Pride bruised. I’d rack the weight in frustration, feeling weak and angry. But I kept going. Week after week, rep after rep. Failing. Adjusting. Failing again. Somewhere in the middle of all that failure, something shifted. What was once a weakness became a strength. Not because I avoided failure—but because I leaned into it.

That’s the paradox: the gym is one of the only places in life where failure is a sign of progress. You don’t grow unless you push to the edge. You don’t build strength unless you tear something down first.

Leadership is no different.

The seams always burst from the inside out. And when they do, they expose what’s been neglected—your ego, your blind spots, your self-doubt. But that exposure is a gift. Because now you can fix it.

I’ve made bad calls. I’ve lost control of scenes. I’ve said the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time. I’ve walked back into my office and shut the door, knowing I missed the mark.

And you know what I did?

I got back up. I reviewed the tape. I made the after-action report on myself. Because failure, in the hands of someone willing to learn, becomes fuel.

Iron sharpens iron—but not without friction. Not without heat.

The fireground has a way of “callousing your mind.” You push, you hurt, you fail—and then you gear back up and push again. It’s the only path to mental toughness in this job. Through pain, through suffering, and through relentless ownership of our failures, we build something unbreakable: a mindset that doesn’t flinch when things get hard.

But some situations don’t have a win. What then?

Kobayashi Maru – Failing with Character

In Star Trek, there’s a fictional training simulation called the Kobayashi Maru—a no-win scenario designed not to test tactics, but to reveal a cadet’s character. The cadet is forced to choose between attempting to rescue a civilian ship under Klingon attack—guaranteeing the destruction of their own vessel—or abandoning the ship to its fate. There is no “right” answer. The point isn’t to win—it’s to see who you are when winning is off the table.

That idea stuck with me.

When I was promoted to captain, I started thinking more and more about those kinds of moments—the ones where every path carries risk, where someone might get hurt or killed no matter what choice you make. I’d rehearse those scenarios in my head. On the way to work. At night before bed. I’d play out what would happen if one of my firefighters were trapped, or if we lost mass civilians, or if I made the wrong call under pressure.

I believe that kind of mental preparation—imagining the unthinkable—helps build real fortitude. I don’t dwell on fear, but I do train for it. It’s no different than picking up the bill without hesitation—small habits that forge decisive instincts. It’s about instinct. Practice. Ownership.

Leadership isn’t just about winning. It’s about being ready when there’s no win in sight—and still choosing to show up, to act, and to lead.

Fail, Own it, Learn from it, Adjust, Attack

We admire people like that. But we often forget: they didn’t get there by winning all the time. They got there by failing forward. Repeatedly.

You have to be willing to embrace ignorance—to admit what you don’t know and start back at square one. Leadership isn’t about already having the answers. It’s about becoming the kind of person who never stops seeking them.

Jocko Willink says, “There are no bad teams, only bad leaders.” That’s extreme ownership. When the mission fails, the leader owns it. When your team stumbles, you take responsibility—not because it’s easy, but because you are the one accountable. It doesn’t matter if it was someone else’s fault. You own it. You fix it. You lead through it.

The scoreboard doesn’t lie. The building either burns down or it doesn’t. The team either thrives or it falters. And the hardest part of leadership is when that scoreboard exposes you. When you thought you were ready, but you weren’t. When you thought your plan was airtight, but it leaked under pressure.

That’s why failure is necessary.

Henry Ford once said, “Failure is simply the opportunity to begin again, this time more intelligently.”

Thomas Edison said, “I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.”

Those aren’t just catchy quotes—they’re a mindset. A declaration that failure is data. It’s feedback. It’s the universe saying, “Not like that—try again.”

But here’s what separates good leaders from great ones: the ability to take failure and turn it into clarity for others. Not excuse-making. Not blame-shifting. Just raw, honest reflection—and the courage to step back in the arena anyway.

There’s a verse in Ecclesiastes that says, “God made man simple, but they have sought out many schemes.” (Eccl. 7:29)

We complicate things. We overthink. We let self-doubt creep in. We spiral in analysis paralysis. But leadership is simple at its core: own your failures, learn from them, and lead with more wisdom next time.

You don’t need to win every time to be a great leader.

But you do need to rise every time you fall.

Because failure is always an option—but staying down isn’t.