... the truth is that large success is the aggregation of small successes, and that therefore improvement consists of finding out, in each trial, what works, seizing hold of it, and figuring out how to make more of it. Failure by itself doesn’t teach us anything about success, just as our deficits by themselves don’t teach us anything about our strengths. And the moment we begin to get better is the moment when something actually works, not when it doesn’t.

First, fear inhibits learning. Research shows that fear consumes physiologic resources, diverting them from parts of the brain that manage working memory and process new information. In a word, learning. And that includes learning from failure. It is hard for people to do their best work when they’re afraid. It’s especially hard to learn from failure because doing so is a cognitively demanding task. Second, fear impedes talking about our failures. Today’s never-ending chore of self-presentation has exacerbated this ancient human tendency. The pressure to look successful has never been greater than in this age of social media. Studies find today’s teens, in particular, are obsessed with putting forward a sanitized version of their lives, endlessly checking for “likes” and suffering emotionally from comparisons and slights, real or perceived. Our emotional reaction to a perceived rejection is the same as to an actual one, because it’s how we interpret a situation that shapes our emotional response. And it’s not just the kids who worry. Whether in professional accomplishment, attractiveness, or social inclusion, keeping up appearances can feel as necessary as breathing to full-grown adults. The real failure, I’ve found, is believing that others will like us more if we are failure-free. In reality, we appreciate and like people who are genuine and interested in us, not those who present a flawless exterior.

Of the sixteen cardiac surgery departments my colleagues and I studied, only seven stuck with the new technology. The other nine departments tried it out for a handful of operations, then abandoned it. The most important difference in the groups that succeeded was surgeon leadership—not surgeon skill, experience level, or seniority. When we started the study, we expected that the more elite academic medical centers would be more likely to succeed than the less well-known community hospitals. But we were wrong. Hospital type and status made no difference at all. The challenge all these teams faced was more interpersonal than technical. The innovation challenged the traditionally hierarchical structure of operating rooms, where the surgeon typically issued orders that others carried out. Surgeons practicing the new technique were newly dependent on the rest of the operating-room team to coordinate aspects of the procedure and keep a “balloon clamp” in place inside the patient’s artery as a way of restricting blood flow to the heart. The balloon’s tendency to shift meant that the team had to monitor its location through ultrasound imagery to make adjustments. But unless people felt psychologically safe enough to speak up, these activities were hard to carry out. For instance, asking the surgeon to pause while the balloon was

repositioned was both new and difficult for most nurses. Surgeons had to listen to other members of the team more often, and more intensely, than in traditional surgeries, where they had done most of the talking. The successful innovators in our study recognized that they needed to lead differently. They had to make sure that everyone in the operating room could talk openly and immediately about what was needed from one another to make the procedure work. When my colleagues and I analyzed the teams that persisted in mastering the new approach, we found that all of them engaged in a few special activities that reflect core practices in the science of failing well.

Eskreis-Winkler and Fishbach conducted five studies to test the hypothesis that failure, rather than promoting learning, actually undermines it. In one study they asked participants a series of questions starting with identifying which of two symbols from a fictional ancient script represented an animal. Afterward, one group of study participants was told, “You are correct” (success feedback). The other group was told, “You are incorrect” (failure feedback). To see how well they learned from each type of feedback, participants were given a follow-up test. This time they were asked to look at the exact same symbols and asked to identify which one represented a nonliving entity. Sounds pretty straightforward, right? Yet those who had been told they were correct in the first round scored higher in their second test than those told their answers were incorrect. Over and over, people learned less from being given information about what they got wrong than about what they got right.

Ironically, as Cohen’s story illustrates, a learning frame is not only healthier, it’s also more rational than a performance frame. It’s more in tune with the uncertainty and constant challenges found in any life or job. We can’t shield ourselves from disappointments and failures. But we can learn healthy, productive responses to setbacks and accomplishments alike.