Failure.

I talk about what failure means to me. Not failure in a public perception but true failure. The lack of giving your all and failing is the biggest disrespect.

As always, I’m going to preface this with the statement that by no means do I have any answers, but as insight into my thoughts and frameworks through experience and relationships with others. (big thank you to Matt and Melissa on this one)  

If you read regularly, welcome back, and if it’s your first time here, welcome! I mostly write when I have a topic on my mind that’s helped me grow in some mental shifts/big picture scenarios (normally through conflict with the people closest to me). In this case it’s about failure. True failure. Failure in the sense of trying your best and not being able to reach a goal. Failure so great that it’s deemed as an intrinsic success because of the blood, sweat and tears put into a dream or a challenge. Pushing yourself as hard as you possibly can with the time available to complete a tangible task… The truth is in any endeavor I have ever taken on, I’ve never failed in this regard, which is the biggest issue. 

At first glance it seems arrogant, but my perspective is the opposite. I’ve never given my all for anything I have done with a pursuit I’ve chosen in my life. I haven’t had a process, structure, or refining method. My actions have mostly been through a lackadaisical sense of following my heart or whatever piqued my interest. For this post specifically, I’ll use an example of a time in my life where I “failed” optically, but did not fail internally, which is the truest failure of all. 

The biggest one in the eyes of the public was the Heads Up Challenge vs. Bill Perkins. Playing 200/400 and spotting 720k to play 20 thousand hands is an insane endeavor. At the time I wasn’t aware about how big of a deal this was. A deal that I didn’t take nearly as seriously as I could have. Others paid for my mistakes,  failures, and oversights. It’s easy to say “I did my best,” but in reality I did not nearly give the challenge the time, energy, and respect it deserved. This is compounded greatly by taking into consideration that I was not only risking my own dollars on betting on myself in side markets, but the majority of the action not being mine at all. It was sold to outside investors/coaches I worked with, as well as on a stake I had prior. 

It was my endeavor and undertaking with investors under the pretense that I was going to do my best to win, and looking back on this event, I was nowhere near ready nor accountable enough to throw my hat in the ring. It was done off of a spur of the moment thought and when it actually got accepted I relinquished control to the ether. I didn’t chart a course to success, but left it up to intangible metrics like “volume and study.” I didn’t take accountability to sit down and think to myself along with my team of “what is the best path possible to achieve a victory.” Not doing this is my cross to bear to the highest degree.

Due to my actions, I “failed” in a public sense and was given backlash by the community. Offered a spot and didn’t see it out until the end as the projected loss rate could have gotten ugly. All of the pushback and opinions about how I failed are true. I dropped the ball. Not just for myself but for others. I took on something bigger than me and didn’t give it nearly the respect it deserved. That’s “failure” in the public eye. An ego shot, a humbling that I needed desperately unbeknownst to me thinking that I was the second coming of what true skill and ability can be in the poker sphere where I came out of nowhere issuing a high stakes heads up match where I didn’t have anywhere near the capital or experience necessary to issue it. With hindsight being 20/20 as always, I didn’t truly fail, and that’s the biggest issue. 

True failure is offering a challenge, creating structure, trying as hard as you can, trusting your team, and putting in the work day in and day out in order to give the best chance possible to succeed. I didn’t do that in the slightest. In fact I did the polar opposite. Did I study/play for many hours? Of course I did. Did I train as hard as I could and become as proficient as I could possibly be? Absolutely not. 

I saw the event as a spectacle rather than gave it the respect it deserved, and I made others pay the price for it. I didn’t set a regimented routine, I didn’t follow a plan or execute one. I simply put in hours into the game but it wasn’t as intentional as it could have been in the slightest. I didn’t play the trainer for countless hours by myself, and I didn’t spar vs other opponents as much as I could have. I didn’t even talk to anybody prior to investing in it. It was absurd and I see it for what it was now.

I didn’t fail in its purest form of doing everything I could have possibly done in order to maximize the success rate. I have to live with this for the rest of my existence and will be reminded of it constantly. Through my own thoughts or comments on social media, it’s a mark on the resume. This is what comes with the personal price of offering a challenge and failing. By no means is this a piece to “forgive” myself for my actions, but to truly address how poorly I treated this situation through objective reflection. It’s taking accountability of how much others paid at my hand, through my lack of seriousness. 

If I cue the “Man in the Arena” argument in defense for myself, I’ll be the first to say that I wasn’t the Man in the Arena. The Man in the Arena argument is for those who put their all into a challenge, process or dream to the highest extent, and utmost of their ability. I wasn’t the Man in the Arena at all. I was a child who had a big goal and thought that I could show up on my own time and succeed. As seen, I got the result that was worthy of my actions, quitting a quarter of the way through because I was not nearly as good enough as I could have been through the proper preparation methods.

There’s a huge difference here between being a child and a man in the arena in my opinion. The man in the arena sets a structure and revises as much as possible in order to give themselves the best chance for success. If I did all that I could through training, study, execution, the whole nine yards, then yes, that’s the Man in the Arena. The man is the one who fails with honor and dignity. He is the one where it’s truly not the critic who counts. In my instance at the time, that was not me at all. The critic counts, and I was rightfully criticized for my actions. I didn’t fail with honor and dignity, I failed through lack of preparation and sheer negligence.

Moral of the story is if I issue a challenge or create processes to reach my highest self, I have to give myself true metrics to follow the dreams worth chasing. Put in the hours, put in the time, and do my best to where at the end of the day I can look back and say, “I failed” with a head held high. Through that form of failure is where I’ll actually succeed, as the critic can’t count for the one who puts himself in the arena with the highest degree of preparation and effort. A failure in my mind that’s truly an honor to actually be called a failure. I haven’t nearly had this privilege yet, and it’s about time I get to work.

Onwards and upwards, Landon.