Failure Was My First Teacher — And I Finally Listened

I didn’t grow up with much.

No internet. No stable electricity. No role models in tech. Just dusty roads, noisy fans when the power worked, and dreams that felt too big for a place that barely knew what a software engineer was.

Back then, “coding” was something I had only heard about in passing. It sounded complicated, distant—something made for people who lived in cities, had expensive laptops, fast Wi-Fi, and spoke perfect English. Not for someone like me, sitting in a small village where even watching YouTube required walking an hour to a friend’s house with a working connection.

But I was curious.

Maybe that was my first “bug.” Curiosity. The kind that doesn’t let you sleep. The kind that keeps you awake wondering, How do these apps work? How are games made? Could I build something like that… someday?

So I started searching for answers. Slowly. Painfully.

My First Failure

I saved up for months doing part-time work and fixing neighbors' phones just to buy a second-hand laptop. It was old, slow, and cracked on the side, but to me, it felt like a spaceship.

I downloaded PDFs, tutorials, and offline videos whenever I could get internet access. I learned HTML, then CSS, then a bit of Python. Every time something worked — even a blinking “Hello World” — it felt like magic.

But then came my first real crash. One night, while working on a small project, my laptop shut down and never turned back on. I tried everything. Took it apart, googled solutions (on my friend’s phone), even prayed over it.

Nothing.

I stared at the dead screen like it had taken a piece of me with it. And maybe it had. All my files, all my code, all those late nights — gone.

I felt like a failure. I thought: Maybe I’m not cut out for this. Maybe the world I want to reach is just too far away.

Learning the Hard Way

Failure wasn’t new to me. I had failed tests in school, failed to speak up in English classes, failed to connect with people who thought I was “too quiet” or “too odd.” But this felt different.

This failure had hurt because I had finally tried. And trying meant I had something to lose.

For a few weeks, I gave up. I stopped reading. I ignored messages from the few online coding groups I had joined. I watched everyone else move forward while I stood still.

Then one day, my cousin said something that stuck:

“You know, maybe failure is trying to teach you something. You just don’t want to listen.”

At first, I shrugged it off. But later that night, lying in bed, I kept thinking: What if he’s right? What if this failure isn’t the end, but the beginning of something better?

Rebuilding From Scratch

I borrowed an old desktop from a neighbor. It was even slower than my broken laptop, but I didn’t care anymore. I was done waiting for perfect tools or perfect conditions.

This time, I backed up my code on USBs and free cloud drives. I documented everything I learned. I took handwritten notes. I stopped trying to race others and started focusing on my own progress.

I failed again. A lot. Sometimes the code didn’t work. Sometimes I didn’t understand what the tutorial was trying to teach. Sometimes I just got tired.

But something was different now: I was no longer afraid of failure. I had listened. I had accepted that every mistake was a lesson, not a punishment.

And slowly, I got better.

The First Win

Months later, I completed my first small freelance project — a basic website for a local business. It wasn’t fancy, but it worked. And they paid me.

I stared at that small payment on my screen and felt something shift inside me. This wasn’t just about money. It was proof. That I could learn. That I could earn. That I belonged in this world of code, even if I came from a place far from Silicon Valley.

Final Thoughts

People often say “failure is a stepping stone.” But I think that’s too soft. Failure is a crash. It breaks you. It humbles you. And if you’re willing to listen, it teaches you things success never could.

I’m still on the journey. I’m still learning. I still mess up more than I care to admit.

But I’m not afraid anymore.

Because failure was my first teacher — and I finally listened.