I’ve failed more times than I can count. Some failures were quiet. Others echoed for years. The pool in Coronado was one of those. So was the jungle in Fiji.
Both taught me something: Real strength isn’t just about how far you can push, it’s about knowing when to stop, and having the humility to own the difference.
The Pool Fail: Day One, Hour Three
I’m standing poolside at BUD/S, the Navy’s legendary SEAL training. The air smells like salt and chlorine. My uniform’s soaked, boots heavy, lungs still burning from the obstacle course I’d just crushed—5 minutes and 12 seconds, maybe a record.
The “lifesaving test” sounded simple: Jump from the high dive, tread water, strip off boots and pants, tie them into a float. Easy enough—until it wasn’t.
Halfway through, my chest tightened. The old asthma grip came back. Every breath felt like swallowing glass. I kicked harder, swallowed water, refused to quit—and failed.
Three hours into the first day, I stood dripping and humiliated, watching my dream hang by a thread. That’s when Senior Chief Gower, a calm, confident SEAL, walked over.
“You think this is about swimming?” he said. “It’s not about water. It’s about what’s inside you.”
Then he pointed at me.
“Back in the pool.”
Same test. Same lungs. Same water. The only thing different was my mindset. Thirty minutes later, I passed.
That moment flipped the script. I hadn’t gotten stronger or faster; I’d just decided to want it more than I feared it. Failure, I learned, isn’t final. It’s feedback.
It’s data, not destiny.
The Jungle Fail
Years later, that lesson followed me to Fiji.
We were racing the Eco-Challenge: 10 days, 400 miles of paddling, biking, climbing and sleep deprivation through jungle, mountain and sea. Our team was strong and fast, but mistakes stacked up. Each penalty added pressure, and each checkpoint brought the quiet fear of not finishing.
On day six, barreling down a muddy mountain, one of my teammates, who was carrying extra gear to help the team, hit a rut and over-ended his bike. His helmet cracked; he was concussed.
We had a choice: Push on and risk him, or stop and end our race. Everything in me screamed keep going. That’s what SEAL training had wired into me—suffer, endure, finish. But leadership isn’t ego; it’s accountability. Sometimes the hardest call is the one that looks like quitting.
So, we stopped.
It was the right decision at the right time for the right reason. And it still hurt. I can still feel that pang today — the weight of not finishing something I said I would.
But I’ve learned that grace and accountability can live in the same space. You can be proud of doing the right thing while still grieving the result. That’s real growth. Fiji taught me what BUD/S couldn’t: Sometimes strength is staying in the fight, and sometimes it’s stepping out of it. Both require courage.
The Lesson
Failure wears many faces. Sometimes it’s the pool—a gut check that tests your will. Sometimes it’s the jungle—a decision that tests your character. Both demand honesty. Both ask you to look in the mirror and ask:
What did this teach me? What do I still control? How can I use it as fuel?
That’s how you fail forward fast—by choosing to learn faster than you fall. Failing forward fast is the art of flipping the script, turning every setback into self-awareness, strength and relentless forward motion.
The cold pool and the hot jungle taught me the same thing: Failure isn’t fatal, it is formative. Stay accountable, stay authentic and give yourself grace to keep moving in the right direction—even when it’s not the direction you planned.
Because the only true failure is refusing to learn from it.
For more great intel from Chriss Smith, visit tridentmindset.com.
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