No Hero Stories

Eff-Up Nights and the Healing Power of Failing in Public

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n the opening scene of Patton (1970), the brilliant World War II commander, played by George C. Scott, delivers some stern words. “Americans love a winner, and will not tolerate a loser. Americans play to win all the time. I wouldn’t give a hoot in hell for a man who lost and laughed.”

But in fact, that is precisely what people in Richmond, Virginia, and around the world, have been doing. Laughing at failure might run contrary to the entrepreneurial American spirit, yet for those attending F*ckup Nights, the experience has been quite liberating. Our bootstrap culture is saturated with books that expound the Six Secrets of Super Success, or the Seven Habits of Highly Overworked People, but there aren’t many manuals on how to close down your failed business.

What resources are there for those of us who made the calculated decision to launch into the uncharted territory of our ambition, only to crash and burn? Nobody likes that F word—failure—or the shame that accompanies it. But we need not feel alone. A F*ckup Night is your chance to take your inner critic, the one who mouths cheap slogans like “man up,” and jettison him, as in “man overboard.”

At F*ckup Nights people gather to talk about their biggest screw-ups. Thus, the name. Birthed in Mexico City in 2012, F*ckup Nights has over 330 chapters world-wide. The brainchild of Pepe Villatoro and Leticia Gasca, the purpose of the organization is to bring people together to talk about their failures.

In Richmond, the meetings have been exciting and fast-paced. Set up like a TED Talk, the evening starts with an open bar and a chance to network and socialize. A DJ keeps things lively with some funky music, and the prevailing mood is festive. Some in attendance wear shirts with slogans like “Try, Fail, Learn, Repeat” or “Everybody Fails, We Talk About It.” Many sport a self-adhesive name tag that says, “Hi! My name is _________ … and I’m a F*ckupper.” The conference space is packed. At the appointed time, the crowd settles into their seats, and the meeting begins.

A typical F*ckup Night features three speakers who each talk for ten minutes, followed by ten minutes of questions and an-

swers. The speakers, like the audience, come from all walks of life: they are entrepreneurs, techies, creatives, and corporate types. The event is ultimately uplifting, in the way that confession unburdens the soul.

The Richmond chapter is headed up by Zane Gibbs and David Graham, partners in a consulting firm, ZADA Strategy. They kicked off their first event in June of 2019, with meetings following on a quarterly basis. Though in-person meetings were suspended due to the pandemic, post-COVID meetings will resume in summer 2022.

It’s a good thing, too. F*ckup Nights, with their frank discussions about failure, are cathartic. As David points out, “People are way more comfortable saying f*ck than talking about failure, and failure sucks.” The idea is to demystify and destigmatize failure. You may have effed-up, but that doesn’t mean you are a hopeless failure.

For some, the name of the event might be off-putting, but Zane sees it as a positive. “It’s not about the F word; it’s about having genuine, honest, unfiltered conversation.” I found it refreshing to hear testimonies from others who have had to take the business walk of shame.

Zane and David have very high standards for the stories that are told at F*ckup Nights. The first rule is that these are stories of professional failure, not tales of substance abuse or moral lapses. Second, speakers must avoid giving advice. The reason is simple: listeners will be at different places in their own personal journeys, and what one person takes away from a talk will be different from what the person seated next to them learns. Finally, no hero stories.

The hero story: “Yes, I failed, but I’ve got it all together now.” The upbeat ending often robs the failure story of its inherent power.

Even if there is a happy ending, Zane and David don’t want to hear it. “Tell the authentic story of your journey to the bottom,” Zane says. This approach ushers the speakers and the audience into a covenant of sorts, where it is safe to be vulnerable and human.

Done right, F*ckup Nights rise to a level of honesty often found in the most effective 12 Step groups. And much like 12 Step groups, the best chapters keep their eyes firmly on the prize: naked honesty. One attendee, a local pastor commented, “I wish my parishioners were as comfortable being honest about their failings as they are with dropping an f-bomb.” In the right context, failure is just a lesson; it’s the tuition we pay for our ongoing education in life. It sucks, but there is no way around it. The best lessons aren’t the ones we acquire from textbooks; they are the ones experience burns into our souls.

Shame. Five letters that spell one of the most insidious forces we all face. Even Christ himself endured the cross; he understood the destructive power of shame all too well, and despised it. In the church, “shame” is a word most often associated with moral failures. But shame connected to business or finance is often just as devastating.

This is especially true if your church places a strong emphasis on performance and excellence. As a man who had faced financial trouble and two failed attempts at self-employment, I knew I would never be considered for church leadership. Opportunities to speak were also rare. I felt like a football strike season; I would forever have an asterisk by any good plays I made. I sat in church meetings and compared myself to my brothers.

The guys with the close-cropped haircuts and business casual vibe were the guys I knew had it together in all the ways I didn’t. I was sure they paid cash for the Beamer and that their five-year-old son’s college education was already fully funded. The only reason they hadn’t retired at thirty-eight was that they actually liked going in to the office.

As a man with a strong creative bent, who gets the big picture but has trouble with the details, I never measured up in my own eyes. I struggled to understand the verse “faithful in the little things.” It took a friend to help me see. “Don’t compare your insides to other people’s outsides,” he said. They had problems, too; they just weren’t on display as mine were. This wisdom was a stepping stone towards self-acceptance.

“Whenever I share my story,” one speaker, Todd Waldo, told me, “I am hoping to find a place of intersection between me and the audience. I think it’s helpful for people to see my own vulnerability. And I am still dealing with the impacts of the choices I made.” With a background in event planning, Waldo had started his own company, launching himself into the choppy waters of self-employment.

“It was therapeutic,” he recalled, about one Richmond chapter event. “It was therapeutic to reel in my past and examine my journey. It was helpful to see that I am in a different place. I’m not failing the same way.” A perspective like Waldo’s can be the difference between a caution sign and a dead-end sign on the road of life.

One of the first things you notice at a F*ckup Night is that the vibe is unrelentingly positive. This is not a group of keening mourners drawn together to weep over the corpse of your endeavor. This is a group of supportive friends and family there to help you give that dreaded moment its proper send off. It’s a celebration of life, complete with its own Big Easy-style second line celebrants.

One small detail stands out. Much like the baseball player approaching home plate for his turn at bat, the speaker gets to choose his or her own walk-up song. That singular act of self-determination serves to send the message that what happened before is in the past. You may have struck out the last time, but you’re still standing, bat in hand. You will, in fact, live to fight another day.

Sharing our moments of failure exposes our humanity. In the eyes of others, we become approachable, relatable. Too often, especially in church and on social media, we present illusions of a perfect life. Without realizing what we have done, we create a wall, we become unapproachable. We should know better, but those observing us get the wrong message: They have it all together. We could never be real with them.

The truth about our failures is the doorway to grace. Failure removes our imposter masks and allows us to stand emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually naked. Only in this nakedness can we be clothed in friendship and forgiveness and in the affirmation that we failed because we tried. In this way, an eff-up can be a badge of honor. As much as you may feel embarrassed by it, you do not have to be ashamed. That in itself is healing.