My name is Josh Powers, I’m a Major in the United States Army, and I’d like to tell you about the worst failure of my career. I’ve had countless failures as a leader in the military, from the time I backed a forklift over a porta potty as a Second Lieutenant to the executive level briefing that belly flopped in Tokyo in December. My career is riddled with failures, accidents, flawed logic, and bad assumptions. Each of these shortcomings sucked in their own way, but each helped shape who I am as a leader. So, what’s special about the near decade-old story I’m brushing off today? This one is absolutely the most personal. It is a failure which defines a moment in my career when I felt inadequate and out of my league professionally. It is a painful memory, an indication that it is the right story to share. I hope you remember this story the next time you fall on your face or the next time a subordinate strikes out in front of the commander. You see, we all fail, even the most proficient and experienced leaders. But failing does not make you a failure. As a professional in the United States Army, failure is not a destination, a place you end up and never return from. What matters in failure is what you learn and how you recover.

“You build on failure. You use it as a stepping stone. Close the door on the past. You don’t try to forget the mistakes, but you don’t dwell on it. You don’t let it have any of your energy, or any of your time, or any of your space.” – Johnny Cash

Let me give you a little context on my career in the fall of 2010. Like many of my peers, I’d spent the majority of my career in and out of war zones, learning tough lessons through the crucible of combat. Drawing on my experience as a breakfast waiter (which is actually quite similar to being in a fire fight) and a substantial amount of time being yelled at as a cadet, the skills required to succeed in combat came somewhat naturally to me. I could think under pressure, clearly articulate a vision on the radio, and could innovate quickly when the bullets were flying. By my third combat tour in 2010, my skills had grown considerably, but so had my ego. I had experienced lots of challenges in combat, but nothing I considered a failure. In fact, I perceived my early career as defined by win after win, success after success. Within this context, it was no surprise to me that I was selected to try out for an elite organization. I thought: “Of course I am the right person to serve in this organization.” I’d make my way back to the States that fall, crank through tryouts, and be back in combat to continue on a trajectory of victory. But that’s not the way this story goes.

That’s right, I wasn’t selected. I showed up with almost no preparation, either mental or physical. I was still in decent shape, but the deployments had been pretty rough on my body. Even worse, the most recent trip to Afghanistan had made taken a toll on me mentally. When the selection began, it became apparent that I was not where I needed to be physically as I fell behind, event after event. Each of these setbacks was like a body-blow to my increasingly fragile ego. I lost confidence quickly and my “winning” attitude transitioned to self-doubt. I was not surprised at the end of the process when the board politely delivered their results: “You’re not who we’re looking for – you simply did not perform.” I’m not sure I can accurately describe how striking out felt to a 28-year-old Captain who’d hit home runs at every at bat. I felt like a failure and a hack. Was it possible that I’d stumbled into the other successes in my career? Was I actually cut out for this work? How would I be perceived professionally now that I’d been exposed as a failure? All of these doubts swirled through my head as I made my way back to Fort Campbell. But lucky for me, this isn’t where the story ends.

Though I returned dejected, the Army was not done with me yet. I simply needed to rebound and get back to work. I wanted to wallow in self-pity. I was out of command and without a follow-on assignment. However, my Battalion Commander removed any opportunity for hesitation, presenting me with two or three options for other jobs and a quick suspense to choose one. I was selected to serve as a Small Group Instructor at the Maneuver Captain’s Career Course, amongst the most formative jobs I’ve ever had. We moved to Fort Benning within a few weeks and I was at work in a new environment rapidly. You see, failure is not a dead end unless you stop trying. Failure, even catastrophic failure, presents unforeseen opportunities, you just have to pursue them.

I pursued this opportunity at Fort Benning with a renewed sense of purpose and drive. I was no longer an invincible leader who could never fail. I was now a member of a team of instructors with similar talents and abilities. They had accrued substantially more experience in teaching and had broadened their tactical experience with an in-depth understanding of doctrine. I was motivated to learn, study, and perform. For the first time in years, I approached the position with humility, open to learning and perspectives that diverged from my own thoughts and experiences. I grew substantially during this period and developed a deeper appreciation for learning and self-development as a leader. But I wasn’t destined to be an instructor for long.

Only a few months into teaching I was selected to serve as an aide to a General Officer, undoubtedly the most developmental assignment of my career. I was afforded a unique opportunity to absorb the personal example of one of the greatest team builders the U.S. Army has ever known. For an officer who previously perceived I was the center of gravity in previous organizations, life as an aide was an important wake-up call. Not only was it absolutely NOT about me, but my boss made every attempt to make it not about him as well. Instead, he focused on the team, the organization, and striving towards constantly improving the United States Army. Though I had experienced mission command in tactical settings, working as an aide gave me an appreciation for its application in the context of organizational leadership. I began to realize that leadership is much more than your individual talents and attributes. Being skilled, smart, and physically fit is a baseline for success as an organizational leader. What is far more important is how you enable a team to do their best work while focusing on a common purpose. My boss provided numerous examples; providing a unifying narrative, aligning diverse and distributed teams to achieve results. He was a master in bringing out the best in people through broad, intellectual inclusion. All of these lessons helped to balance out what had been a lopsided leadership perspective. This opportunity would not have been available without the aforementioned failure, but, more importantly, I’m not confident I would have been in the right mindset to receive these rich lessons without failing.

So, what is the true failure in this story? At the surface, being rejected for service in an elite organization seemed to be the obvious answer. But after substantial reflection, I began to appreciate this rejection as an opportunity to see the true failure: allowing my ego to expand beyond control. When this inflated self-view burst in the fall of 2010, I picked up the pieces and reassembled myself and my leadership philosophy. Luckily, each failure brings unforeseen opportunities like those I was afforded in subsequent years at Fort Benning. I am by no means perfect as a Field Grade Leader, ask anyone with whom I’ve served at Lewis, Leavenworth, or Shafter. I still have arrogant tendencies, I can be a know it all, and often rush to judgement. But I’m still learning from my mistakes and seeking to improve my leadership.

I hope my failure, though it still pains me to share it, can serve as a useful tool for you. Failure is a natural progression in our profession, a challenge we all face from time to time. But failure is not what defines us. Failure is not who we are, unless we allow it to be. What matters most is what we learn from failure, what these important lessons contribute to our development in the profession of arms.