Are We Afraid of Failure, or Afraid of Not Being Enough?

I’ve come to realise that we have a complicated relationship with failure.

Failure seems simple on the surface. You try something, it doesn’t work, you move on. If people truly weren’t afraid of failing, they’d go after the things they say they want in life. They’d start the business, learn the skill, ask out the person they’ve been thinking about for years.

Failure feels like the obvious thing we’re all running from. But lately, that explanation hasn’t felt complete.

When I sit with it more honestly, what I notice isn’t a fear of failure itself, but a fear of what failure would confirm. I think many of us are afraid of trying our best and still coming up short. Of putting ourselves out there, fully, and being rejected.

If we give something our full effort and it still doesn’t work out, what does that say about us?

And that question quietly terrifies a lot of people.

The Comfort of Not Quite Trying

There’s a strange comfort in half-trying. In putting in effort, but not committing all the way. It’s like leaving a door half open, or keeping a story unfinished.

You hear it in the language people use when they talk about the lives they might have lived.

“I could’ve done X, I just didn’t have the time.”
“I would’ve gone for it, but I wasn’t ready.”
“I was really good at that, if only I’d committed.”

These sentences don’t sound like fear, but that’s exactly what they are. What they really do is keep possibility alive, allowing us to live inside potential instead of reality. And potential feels safe.

The Stories We Carry Forward

As people get older, these stories don’t disappear. They become part of how someone explains their life to themselves.

Sometimes they’re told with bitterness, as if life got in the way of what could’ve been. A family, an injury, bad timing. External reasons that made the dream impossible.

Other times, they’re told with a quiet fondness. Like remembering a younger version of yourself who still felt open-ended, when anything seemed possible. As long as that version exists somewhere in the imagination, something important hasn’t been lost.

These stories run like alternative timelines. Versions of who we really could’ve been, if circumstances had worked out differently.

What Full Commitment Forces Us to Face

Here’s the uncomfortable part.

If you fully commit to something and it doesn’t work out, you’re forced to face a real possibility. That maybe you weren’t good enough. That maybe you didn’t actually have what it takes. Not in the way you hoped.

For many of us, that lands right on the deepest fear of all. What if I’m not enough?

I think most of us wrestle with this, both consciously and unconsciously. I know I do. The feeling of not being worthy. Not deserving. Not quite measuring up to life itself.

Which makes trying and failing feel deeply personal.

When there’s no effort left to withhold and no excuse left to lean on, the outcome stops being about circumstances. It starts feeling like a statement about you. About your limits. About what you can and can’t do.

And that kind of clarity can feel unbearable.

The Cost of Never Finding Out

So instead, many of us choose to live inside potential. In what could or could’ve been.

Beneath the surface, there’s often an unspoken bargain happening. If I don’t fully try, I never have to fully find out. As long as effort is partial, the verdict is postponed. And so we live in imagined futures rather than discovering the truth for real.

Over time, this becomes a habit. A way of protecting ourselves from facing our inadequacies head-on.

I see this clearly in my own life. I project forward into all the things I could do, and the version of myself I could become. It feels good, almost addictive. But when I slow down and really look, I see what’s happening.

I’m escaping the discomfort of who I am right now by fantasising about who I might become. More successful. More confident. More respected. Finally enough.

That’s a dangerous place to live.

It’s fine to visit that future from time to time. But if I stay there too long, I run the risk of never giving my full effort to what’s in front of me. Of never actually finding out what I’m capable of.

Potential, when it goes untested, stops being inspiring. It becomes heavy. It turns into regret before the fact.

And quietly, life passes.

The Feeling of Trying Fully

What I’ve been slowly learning is that there’s a deep satisfaction in trying my best, even when I come up short.

Being able to say, “I gave it everything,” sits very differently to, “I could’ve done that.” One makes me feel alive and grounded. The other leaves behind regret, and sometimes shame.

There will come a point for all of us when we no longer have the energy to chase what we want. For some, that will be in their 80s or 90s. For others, much sooner.

When that time comes, we’ll have plenty of space to reflect. I don’t have a crystal ball, but I know this with certainty. I won’t regret the things I tried and failed. Those will be the best stories. The moments I pushed myself. The times I felt most alive.

I once jumped on a one-way flight to Thailand to try to become a professional poker player. Even if that had failed, what a story. Young, naive, going after something uncertain.

I later created my own job as a mindset coach for poker players, with no experience, at a time when only two people in the world were doing something similar. Reckless. Optimistic. Completely unqualified on paper.

If either of those had crashed and burned, I would’ve had no regrets.

The regrets come from the things we wanted to do but didn’t. The things we didn’t commit to. The risks we avoided. How long that list becomes is determined by how we live now.

Finding Out For Real

Here’s a goal I’ve barely shared with anyone outside my fiancé.

I want to compete for Great Britain in the World Powerlifting Championships.

Part of this comes from never reaching that level as a runner, watching friends represent our country while I fell short. Another part comes from a quiet voice that says, “You might be able to do this, if you really tried.”

I don’t know if that voice is right. But I know there’s only one way to find out.

Right now, I’m 37. The best powerlifters in the world are in their 20s and far ahead of me. But there’s also a Masters category for over 40s, and for that, I’m close.

My current total is 610kg. Last year, the UK Masters was won with totals in the mid-640s to 650s. With time, health, and consistent training, it’s possible. Not guaranteed. But possible.

And if I fail, does it really matter?

At least I’ll know.

Coming up short doesn’t mean you’re not enough.

It means you’ve stopped hiding behind imagined versions of yourself. It means you’ve met life as it is, not as you hoped it would be. From there, you can adjust, redirect, and discover strengths you never would’ve found otherwise.

Real courage isn’t in succeeding.

It’s in being willing to find out who you are without the cushion of “I could’ve been.”

Just committing fully, and letting reality answer back.

That’s the life I want to live.

Adam