Despite my deeply rooted and irrational fear of blood and needles, I found myself incredibly fascinated by the medical field. I wanted to go into the medical field while simultaneously fearing everything about it. I went to college for forensic anthropology. Studying bones and decomposed bodies was less frightening because I couldn’t hurt them, they were already dead. I worked as a receptionist in a clinic. I was flirting with the medical field, but never committing.
Finally a nurse co-worker called me out. She wanted to know why I wasn’t going to school to be a nurse or a doctor. I admitted my secret. “Oh, we can fix that.” Words that would irrevocably changed my life.
I started observing patient procedures, with permission, of course. I’d watch until I felt like I was either going to vomit or faint. The amount of time I could tolerate being in the room increased gradually. I started setting up for the nurses. I knew the process by heart. I could watch the entire time without issue, and even help trouble-shoot if there was a complication.
One particularly brisk morning, a nurse hovered over me with a smile. “Ready?” She sat down before me and opened her arm onto the table. “Draw me.” I think I may have disassociated. The next thing I knew a few other nurses had gathered around, and I was holding the needle like:

I took a deep breath, leaned in, and felt the needle hit a hard surface. I realized I had closed my eyes. I opened them and everyone started laughing. I had 100% missed her ENTIRE arm and stuck the needle into the table. Epic failure. I didn’t just miss the vein; I missed the whole dang body part. True story.
Now, years later, I am one of the best phlebotomists around. I am the nurse all of the hard sticks are sent to. I train other medical professionals to draw blood. I clean, pack, and dress wounds, drain cysts, remove sutures, and am completely unshakable when someone is bleeding all over the office. I don’t just tolerate it. I love it.
How did I get here?
Honestly, I kept f***ing up until I got here.
After that first attempt at drawing blood, there were many more attempts that followed. I SUCKED. I was terrible at phlebotomy. My hands shook like I drank 12 pots of coffee. I broke into a sweat. I was slow and clunky. I missed veins. I f***ed up 20, 30, 50, 100s of draws. There were successes, too. Other nurses would observe and then trouble-shoot with me, offer advice, and explain where I could try to improve. Not once did anyone ever suggest I should consider giving up.
I got comfortable with failure. I embraced the fail. It stopped meaning there was something wrong. I looked forward to failing. I realized that every time I failed, I wasn’t going backward, I was actually going forward. Each failure moved me in a direction because I was learning, improving, and practicing. I expected to fail. When I failed, I moved forward and up, toward my goal of becoming a nurse. If I failed, it meant I was failing upward.
Failure that moves us toward our goal is the most useful action we can take.
So, when I tell you I f***ed up to get to where I am today, I mean I failed up until I hit my goal.