I’m writing this for a dear friend who has been preparing for competitive exams for years, and couldn’t make it this time. I’m also writing it for myself, for the failures I’ve faced, the ones I fear, and for anyone who has ever given their all and still fallen short. I often imagine a classroom filled with forty students— each one sincere, each one working tirelessly. Yet only one receives the first prize. That doesn’t mean the other thirty-nine didn’t work. It’s just that life teaches us early on that effort doesn’t always equal outcome. And maybe, that’s where the journey of learning to live with failure begins. What makes it harder is the thought of starting over. After years of giving everything, the thought of preparing for another year feels heavier, not because the goal has lost its importance, but because the heart now carries the weight of yesterday's silence, the missed chances, and the quiet question: “Can I do this again?” Yet, even in that doubt, there’s strength.

A silent courage in choosing to try again. Failure hurts because it challenges our deepest beliefs about our worth, abilities, and dreams. It brings a storm of shame, doubt, and quiet pain, especially when we’ve invested so much of ourselves into what we were chasing. It can feel like rejection— not just of our efforts, but of who we are. But at its core, failure stings because we cared. We dared to hope, to try, to give ourselves fully. And when things fall apart, we mourn not just the result, but what could’ve been. Sometimes, I wonder how society has placed such an emphasis on success. It pushes us to chase more, to run the extra mile, to compete endlessly with others, and to desire dreams that may not even be ours. Instead of teaching us to live fulfilling lives, it teaches us to measure ourselves against someone who has achieved more. It’s exhausting. How beautiful it would be if society focused less on comparison and more on contentment—if it encouraged us to find happiness in what we already have and supported us in doing so.

This thought lingers when I reflect on Japan, a country known for its discipline and success, yet with one of the highest suicide rates. Or the rise in suicide attempts among students in prestigious institutions like IIT. I wonder how some students, who don’t place in IIT, also attempt suicide. How can someone who has secured a job through a campus interview and landed a fine position still contemplate ending it all? What happens to those who seem to have it all together and yet feel the most broken? What’s happening there? How can those who seem to have it all—intelligent, successful—feel so shattered? The truth is, success alone doesn’t guarantee peace. When society glorifies only results—ranks, salaries, fame—it forgets the human behind those achievements. In places like Japan or among top-tier institutions like IITs, the pressure to constantly excel becomes overwhelming. The fear of failure, the burden of expectations, the loneliness of silent suffering—it all builds up. People often don’t have the space to pause, to breathe, to say, “I’m struggling.” Instead, they push themselves harder, believing they have to earn their worth. We are taught how to win, but not how to fail. We are taught how to achieve, but not how to rest. Somewhere in that noise, the joy of simply being alive gets lost. People who never got the chance to chase their dreams often live with regret. Those who did sometimes regret not trying harder. And the ones who gave it their all may find themselves wishing they had paused to enjoy life a little more. That’s the truth about life—no path is without its share of longing. Every choice brings both light and shadow. So instead of getting lost in regret, maybe the best thing we can do is focus on being present, growing gently, and finding peace with where we are—even as we keep moving forward. I believe regret is one of the cruellest punishments we give ourselves. It traps us in the past, makes us suffer in the present, and fills our future with fear. It whispers that we should’ve done more, been more, known better. But life was never meant to be lived backward. We can’t rewrite the chapters already written, but we can choose how the next one begins. Maybe the real success isn’t in never failing, but in not letting failure steal our peace, our joy, or our right to begin again. I know I’m not wise enough to give advice. I’m writing this while carrying the weight of my pain, while feeling the pressure society places on me to succeed, to prove I’m worth something. Sometimes, I just wish the world would let me breathe, accept me as I am, even if I’ve failed. I don’t want praise or sympathy. I don’t want people to pity me or treat me as less. I just want to be seen—truly seen—for the effort I’ve put in. To be treated like a person, not as someone who fell short. I want to forgive myself.

But truthfully, I’m afraid. After five years in this competitive race, after pouring everything into one dream, I don’t know what will happen if I fail again. I’m scared that I might think of suicide. That fear isn’t just a passing thought—it’s a weight I carry some nights. That’s why I’m writing this—for myself more than anyone else. So that if that dark moment comes, I’ll have something to hold on to. Something that reminds me I’m not alone, that my life is bigger than any result. I want to believe that even in failure, I still matter. That I still have a future. Right now, I’m feeling low. My understanding parents don’t seem to understand me anymore. My relatives think I’m wasting my youth. Some believe I’m making excuses, scrolling my time away. Maybe I do, on some days. But that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped trying. I’m still here—waiting, fearing, hoping. And writing— because sometimes, writing is the only way I know how to survive. I feel like I’ve given up, and right now, all I need is a break. A break from the pressure, from the constant striving.

For once, I just want to step away from myself and for my peace. I don’t want anything right now—no more goals, no more expectations. I just need time to breathe and heal. It’s okay to take a break and permit myself to rest without feeling guilty. I’m not even sure why I’m writing this, but something inside me feels that maybe someone else, somewhere, might relate to this pain and realize they’re not alone. Or maybe, one day, I’ll look back at these words and see how far I’ve come—how I crossed these hurdles. But for now, I want to say this to anyone who’s feeling the weight of failure: Take a break. Step back for a moment. Reflect on what truly matters to you and what makes you feel alive. It’s okay to pause, to breathe, and to find peace in the quiet, away from the constant striving.

Sometimes, we need to step back before we can move forward. I didn’t write this to demotivate anyone, or to say don’t chase your dreams. I’m not saying failure is a reason to stop trying. What I’m trying to say is, learn to love the process, no matter the outcome. Even if you don’t succeed, at least you’ll have lived, truly lived, while trying. Don’t look back and regret the moments when you laughed, rested, or felt alive. Those were not distractions, they were the breathers that helped you survive and come back stronger. If you fail, don’t regret not pushing yourself harder every second. Let those happy times be what they were meant to be—light in the middle of the struggle. If you feel overwhelmed, take a break. If your heart tells you to continue, go ahead and give it your best. And if you feel like giving up, know that it’s okay to step away too. But through it all, please remember, your life matters more than any exam, job, or rank ever will. Once, we feared small school tests as if they were the end of the world. And we grew past them. We will grow past this, too. What feels like everything now will one day be just a part of your story, not the whole of it.

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