Thirty years of rock climbing have made my outlook on life and work deeply intertwined with my climbing experiences.
I grew up in Boulder, Colorado, home to some of the world’s best climbing spots and most skilled climbers. Back when I was just a teenager, my stepfather signed me up for a climbing course. I grumbled, “I’d rather be reading.” But by the end of the first day, I knew I had found my lifelong passion.
For me, rock climbing is the ultimate classroom, offering insights into every facet of life, including business, management, leadership, and even scientific research. This sport rarely gives those who make mistakes a second chance—death ends all learning. But I’ve been lucky enough to survive my mistakes and learn important lessons that have proven invaluable in both life and work.
Lesson one: Keep climbing upward—prefer to fall rather than fail: How to succeed without reaching the summit
My friend Matt and I rounded a bend on the trail and stopped in front of a magnificent rock face: a smooth, slightly overhanging silver-white granite wall with a thin finger-width crack running through the middle.
“See, that’s why I call this route the Crystal Ball,” Matt said, pointing to a quartzite hold the size of a baseball about fifty feet above us.
We continued climbing upward, and I felt a surge of adrenaline, hoping to achieve an on-sight ascent—an on-sight means successfully completing a first climb without any prior route information, without a single fall. The first climber has only one chance; if they mess up and end up on the rope, it can no longer be called an on-sight.
When we were still ten feet from the Crystal Ball, my feet began to slip, knocking loose several small rocks. I gripped tightly with my thumbs, my hands hooking onto a protruding edge of the rock. All I could think was: “If only I could lighten the weight on my fingers just a little more...” The excitement of the on-sight push caused me to overgrip, squeezing each hold too hard, like a nervous runner sprinting out of the blocks too fast.
“Take a deep breath, Jim. You need to relax,” Matt’s voice helped calm me slightly.
I slowly loosened my fingers and regulated my breathing, but my thoughts were still racing. “One mistake and I’m done... but even if I get this move right, I’m not sure I’ll have enough strength to reach the Crystal Ball... and if I don’t make it there, I won’t be able to place a protection point to secure the rope... how far will I fall?...” Doubts consumed me as time ticked away.
“Alright, Matt, I’m going for it.”
I pulled horizontally with my right hand and moved my left foot toward the lip of the wall. Oops—I should have used my left hand to grab the lip. I shifted my body to the left, trying to find any protruding edge or rock to help me quickly move my right hand up before using my left hand to grab the lip. I pressed my right fingertips against a downward-facing rock corner, but the angle made it difficult to pull sideways. At that moment, my chances of success were less than 20%: if I kept going, I would inevitably fall—thirty feet down; even if I managed to climb higher, without another anchor to secure the rope, the higher I climbed, the farther I’d fall.
“Down!” I shouted to Matt.
“No!” he yelled back. “You’re only three moves away from the Crystal Ball—you can make it!”
“Down!” I shouted again.
With that, I let go and controlled my descent down the rope. I dangled there for about ten minutes, gradually regaining my strength, then swung back toward the wall. This time, I grabbed every hold and successfully made it to the top.
Of course, this couldn’t be considered a true on-sight ascent. Though later that same day, I tried the route again, climbing up from below and reaching the summit in one go, no matter how successful that attempt was, I knew I had already failed. Not in action, but in mindset. Because at the moment when I should have given my all, I let go—I chose failure over falling.
Failure and falling. The difference between the two is incredibly subtle, yet profoundly significant. When you fall, you may not reach the summit, but you never give up. Falling means your body drops, but failure means your heart has already surrendered.
Climbing until you fall means you gave it your all—even if the chances of success were less than 20%, 10%, or even 5%. You gave everything, mentally and physically, without making excuses. No matter how much fear, pain, nausea, or uncertainty you faced, you demanded 100% effort from yourself.
To an outside observer, failure and falling might look the same (both involve falling through the air), yet the inner experience of falling is entirely different from that of failure.