The self-help books count falls like rosary beads:seven times down, eight times up,as if resilience were mathematics,as if the ground were keeping score.
I've fallen more than seven times.Fallen out of love, out of favor,out of the life I drew in crayon at six.Fallen behind on payments, ahead of schedulefor the midlife crisis I swore I'd skip.Some falls you don't get up from—you get up different.
Watch the drunk stumble home:he's mastered something the sober never learn—how to make gravity negotiable,how to turn collapse into dance.Not proud, but true. Sometimesthe best teacher is the worst exampleof everything except survival.
The eighth time isn't magical.Neither is the hundredth.Rising isn't about counting—it's about forgetting to count,about becoming intimate with earth,learning the taste of your own bloodmeans you're still alive to taste it.
Here's what the proverb leaves out:Sometimes staying down is wisdom.Sometimes the ground has something to teach youthat you can't learn standing.Sometimes eight times upis seven times too many,and the real mastery is knowingwhen to change the game entirely.
Master the fall. Master the sprawl.Master the art of making friendswith whatever breaks your landing.