D-I-A-R-A-M-A.
The seven unlucky letters that lost me the spelling bee.
It was 2017. I was 10 years old and – strangely, for me – confident in my spelling capabilities. Math and science were never my strong suit, but spelling? That, I could do.
Or so I thought.
I advanced from the classroom competition to the school-wide bee, then to the regional level. This one would be televised, but before “lights, camera, action,” we went through two practice rounds. My peers boosted my confidence here; they were misspelling words like “llama” and “giraffe.” I couldn’t believe it.
Then, the cameras started rolling; the real rounds, where mistakes had consequences, began, and I was given my first word.
Diorama.
It was almost an entire decade ago, and I still remember what I was wearing – my favorite aqua-colored dress with white detailing and bell sleeves that made me feel like a princess. I also remember how little my outfit helped when I heard that word and my heart skipped a beat.
I had studied words upon words for weeks – hundreds of words – but diorama wasn’t one of them. The definition didn’t help. There was nothing more to do.
I took my best guess and got it wrong. As I took my seat, pressure building behind my eyes, I didn’t feel like a princess anymore; I felt like a failure.
Today, I still struggle to forgive myself for the slightest mistakes, even when they’re as small as one letter.
But it’s true what they say in “It’s a Wonderful Life.” No man is a failure who has friends.
As I sat, deflated, in my seat, waiting for that torturous spelling bee to end, I made eye contact with my dad in the audience. I could tell he was upset, too – I only hoped it was for me and not with me.
Before we drove home after it ended, he had a gift for me. He gave me “Little Women,” both the Louisa May Alcott book and the DVD of the 1994 movie.
It remains both one of my favorite books and movies, but it wouldn’t have mattered if I hated it. Regardless of what my dad gave me, he had bought me a gift before seeing how I would perform. He wasn’t disappointed in my mistake; he was proud of me for trying at all.
It’s hard to feel like a true failure with that kind of support. I still manage to, sometimes. I am my own worst critic.
Still, I’m grateful for the support system I was born with and the relationships I’ve built.
If it weren’t for my spelling bee adventure in 2017, I might still not know how to spell diorama. Plenty of people my age don’t. Trust me, I’ve tested them.
So, maybe my failures do make me who I am – not by making me a failure myself, but by being my greatest lessons in a world where it’s safe to make mistakes.
After all, if I know one thing for certain, it’s that I’ll never forget how to spell diorama again.
