My freshman year of high school, I played varsity softball. I was eighth in the lineup, and I started in right-field most games. When I didn’t start, I pinch-hit and pinch-ran for my teammates. We won eight games that year. We lost eighteen.

My sophomore year of high school, the freshman that came in were talented. I sat the bench essentially all year. I played defense (in right-field) four times, and I pinch-hit sometimes. I acted as a team captain for junior varsity. We won fourteen games that year. We lost thirteen.

My junior year of high school, I didn’t make varsity. I was a team captain for junior varsity (again), and I didn’t make my way onto a varsity roster until post-season. I cried the whole way home from practice the night our coach announced our travelling varsity team. I came to (almost) every preseason morning conditioning practice, only missed four preseason practices, weight-lifted three times a week, took private hitting lessons, put in extra time after practice, came early to practice to set up equipment, and had a positive attitude. It wasn’t enough. The varsity record was identical to the previous season.

My senior year of high school, I was on varsity (by default, I’m pretty sure.) My teammates voted me as a team captain. I played left-field when I played, and I pinch-hit more frequently than I did in previous years. At one point (three-fourths of the way through the season), our varsity assistant told me I was the best pinch-hitter on the team. I didn’t always get on, he said, but I consistently put the ball in play, moved the runners on base, could get a bunt down, and was smart in the batter’s box. He told me he wanted me to get one at-bat a game. I didn’t get in another game.

There was one game in particular that year that a freshman (a mildly talented outfielder) was put in a game over me. I was crushed and confused. The next night after practice, I walked up to my coach and asked to speak with her privately. I asked why I was not her first option for what would have been a third-string outfielder, and what I could do to change her mind. I was crying the entire time. My coach apologized, acknowledged my perspective, but essentially told me there wasn’t enough time for me to earn that spot back.

We won 15 games that year. We lost only 11.

At my last athletic banquet, I received academic all-conference, the four-year athlete award, the captain award, academic all-state, and the mental attitude award.

I’m proud of the fact that my teammates saw my leadership ability although it took place behind-the-scenes (by always having extra cleats and indoor practice attire and water bottles and by running extra reps for girls who asked that of me) and on the bench — they saw this ability enough to vote me team captain regardless of the fact that I was not a starter. But I’m most proud of my mental attitude award.

There was not a practice that I wasn’t laughing and encouraging my teammates through sprints and drills. At every game, I was my team’s biggest fan. I cheered for the girls who played before me (even when inside I was distraught and crushed).

In softball, I failed time and time again. For a while, I hated my coach because I was failing. Now, I’m eternally grateful for her: she taught me to be resilient. She taught me to be a team-player. She taught me how to fail with my head held high.

Now that I’m in college, I’ve noticed that not every one has learned how to not succeed yet. It’s obvious in their entitled attitudes and internal need to succeed and be the best. I find these people insufferable. There’s nothing wrong with failing as long as you do so with a sense of self-respect and respect for those who succeeded when you didn’t. There’s nothing wrong with failing so long as you look at failure as an opportunity for growth.

Now when I fail, I think about the experience in terms of what I can do differently next time to change the outcome. It’s no one’s fault but my own that I didn’t perform the way I wanted to. I can’t blame the bad professor who didn’t prepare me well for an exam or my softball coach for not training me better or for not picking me to play. I take ownership of my failure and I grow in it.

Under no circumstances ever is anyone entitled to success.

No amount of hard work, natural ability, or time entitles you to success.

And sometimes that’s not fair, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

No one is good at everything, so everyone can fail at something. We can all do a better job at walking in this mindset in the face of failure. I think the world would be a better place if everyone did. You won’t always win, you won’t always succeed, but that doesn’t make you any less of a competitor.

Next time you fail, walk in confidence, knowing that you did your best (or at least performed as well as you had prepared). If you’re unhappy with your outcome, figure out why. What went well? What could have gone better? How do you get to the outcome you want? Who did get the outcome you want, and how did they do it?

Decide that you’re okay with your failure, and try harder the next time.