I broke my Wordle streak this morning.

It’s not the first time. After discovering Wordle in January and quickly becoming obsessed, I built up a fairly impressive streak before encountering my first defeat 148 days later.

That first loss was crushing.

I was disappointed in my strategy and furious with the Wordle team for using what I perceived to be a cheap word.

Of course, it wasn’t a cheap word.

It was a common, well-known word that happened to have a large number of relatives only one letter apart. After identifying four of the five letters with my first 5 guesses, my final guess essentially amounted to a shot in the dark to pick the correct final letter out of three possible options.

I missed.

And I lost.

In the bitterness that defined the day of the loss, I briefly thought about quitting Wordle. Of not giving them the satisfaction of me returning after such humiliation.

But the following morning rolled around, habit kicked in, and I found myself back in the saddle, embarking on the beginnings of a new streak.

That one lasted 4 days.

Again, fury. At myself, at Wordle, at the indignity of losing twice in one week to a game I thought I had long ago mastered.

But once again, I returned.

Did I really think I had another choice?

More streaks followed. And more streaks ended.

None as long as my first streak but none as short as my second.

Most streaks were ended thanks to situations akin to my very first loss. Today, for example I guessed “PATCH” instead of “CATCH” (though “HATCH” and “WATCH” were also potential options for my final guess).

Some streaks were ended by hubris.

One because I was traveling and simply forgot.

The only commonality between each of my perfect streaks is that sooner or later, they ended.

As the losses have mounted, now four or five strong, my posture toward the game has shifted.

Sure, I’m still disappointed when I lose. But I no longer dwell on it throughout the day, think about quitting the game out of spite, or even experience any sense of frustration.

The more I lose, the more it becomes clear that, as with any game, losing is not only a potential outcome but an inevitable one.

To believe otherwise is either ignorant or arrogant.

Losing is a Part of the Creative Game

When we haven’t yet experienced a significant creative loss—a launch that flops, a poorly conceived project, a client that leaves us for a competitor—we tend to adopt one of two unhelpful postures.

The first is hubris, burying our heads in the sand and convincing ourselves our hot streak will never end.

The second is fear, living and creating beneath the constant spectre of the inevitable failure we’re certain is right around the corner.

In both cases, our posture impacts the quality—and more importantly, the courageousness—of our work.

Whether consciously or not, we avoid putting ourselves in situations that might invite that first and most terrible defeat.

Which is unfortunate.

Because the avoidance of work that is daring enough to have the potential to fail in a significant way is far more detrimental to our success than any failure itself.

When we think about failure, we tend to focus on (and exaggerate) the obvious potential downsides: wasted time and effort, financial ruin, and (perceived) public judgment.

And it’s true, all of these outcomes are real possibilities.

But perhaps we should be more afraid of the prospect of spending years of our lives producing de-fanged work that has absolutely zero chance of breaking through to, connecting with, or moving people.

Seek Out the Losses

Let’s not sugarcoat it, failing at a project you’ve put months or years of your life into is nothing short of heartbreaking.

It will make you question your ability—and worth—as a creator and even a person.

At least the first time.

But if you’re able to pick yourself up after that first loss, get back on the horse, and find your way to your second loss… well, let’s be honest, that one’s going to be heartbreaking as well, but a little bit less so.

As the losses pile up, as they inevitably will, however, they begin to take on a different hue.

Sure the opportunity cost and financial downsides of failure are very real (the public judgment usually isn’t), but the meaning you ascribe them shifts.

You realize that the losses are not a reflection of you as a person or creator. They’re simply a natural and inevitable part of the game you’ve chosen to play.

That often enough, the best possible scenario is simply a shot in the dark, where missing the target is in fact the most likely outcome.

That you’ve managed to come back from each of them before, and can—and will—do so again.

Persist in creating work daring enough to invite the possibility of both significant success and significant failure and you’ll find that the bite of failure is just as capable of losing its fangs as your work is in the face of it.

Which means that perhaps, the sooner we can rack up those initial losses, the sooner we can get around to making more daring, more courageous, more meaningful work.

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This article originally appeared in my weekly Creative Wayfinding Newsletter. Each issue is the product of a week of work, and contains something not available for sale.

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