Tell me, did I fail?

Poutine — typically a porridge of fries, gravy, and cheese curds — is a dish best served after a night of heavy drinking. Sober, it’s like a MAC truck plowing into your stomach and dumping anvils down your intestines. Despite the gastronomic assault, I love it, as I do the city it hails from: Montreal.

I fell in awe with the food, bilingual French-English culture, and lifestyle the moment I first visited the city. It sucked me into this vortex of la belle vie and le bien commun — the good life and the common good, respectively. The pace of life — time for coffee and a quick snack, grabbing a world-class meal with friends, and walking aimlessly — was intoxicating.

That first encounter with the province of Quebec did a number on me. Until then, I had never really thought about learning French, but always thought it beautiful and appreciated how it's built into English (e.g., chic, entrepreneur, cafe). Suddenly, I wanted to acquire the skills to speak and return to the City of a Hundred Steeples. I could see myself living there (I confess, I still dream of it).

I came home, tapped open Duolingo, and studied. The language app was helpful at learning new words and an occasional phrase or two, but not really helpful for conversations. Eventually, my practice ended.

During COVID, I dipped my toes into hiring a tutor to meet with me online and practice. Combined with Duolingo, I actually had a dream in French. But this, too, came to a conclusion.

A couple of years ago, we tried to get a French tutor and speaker to visit the house and build skills for the entire family, but that didn’t lead anywhere.

I took a continuing education course in French where the average age was likely 60 years old, leaving me the child at 34. I enjoyed being in a class-like environment for learning, but noticed that I wasn’t getting enough practice outside the course. When the semester ended, I didn’t do anything.

Start, stop. Start, stop. Start, stop. I would feel inspired and act on it. When the wind in my sails changed directions, the apps, books, classes ceased.

As I detail my expedition in language learning, I wonder what words you might apply to yourself if you went through a similar journey — whether about learning a language, trying something different, or beginning a hard journey. Would you say you are trying to learn? Failing to learn? That you will try again? Or that you always give up?

Clients suffering from depression will — with near universality — say they failed. Moreover, they might say they failed, always fail, and shouldn’t have even tried because this is what always happens. Why try if the outcome is known failure?

Resilience sounds very different. Perhaps a client will say, “I stopped learning French, and I am going to continue” or “It’s okay that I struggled, and I’m looking for ways to pick it back up now.” Hope remains eternal despite ups and downs.

These reactions to the same event remind of the ancient Chinese parable titled, “The old man lost his horse.” In the story, a farmer loses his horse and neighbors provide well-meaning condolences. But the farmer wonders if there will be a “silver lining.” Eventually, the horse returns with a number of other horses. Again, neighbors are there to comment on the farmer’s great fortune. The farmer simply replies, "Who knows what misfortune this foretells?" Over and over again, the farmer is faced with a new challenge or opportunity, but meets the moment with a sort of appreciation that the future could hold anything — they’re not tied to any one direction and they don’t assign one to it.

When we use depressed language, we are fixed to the world being one way and have blinders on for anything but the bad potential, past, and present. It’s a type of confirmation bias and self-fulfilling prophecy all wrapped in one. I tell my clients their “word-bank” (a nod to Mad-Libs) is filled with only a select few options from the English language — absent are words of praise, understanding, empathy, and encouragement. The depressed farmer sees every update as another thing proving why life is miserable and awful.

Ironically, it’s incredibly human to have this negative self-talk. Nearly every person with depression I have seen in this decade plus of work employs the same “tough” language, and plenty defend its use because they “deserve it” or are concerned about becoming “complacent” if they don’t. In provocative sessions, I ask clients to role-play and talk to me with their inner voice — to direct it at me. Most squirm at the thought of telling me I’m awful, worthless, or a failure. They are better friends to others than themselves.

Their homework — ridiculously simple, while painfully hard to reproduce — is to ask themselves two questions. “Would I say this to a friend?” Followed by, “If not, then what?” The expectation I put forth is to actually model what they would say to a friend on paper or aloud. When we shape these reactions, we stand a chance at lasting change.

When I look at my efforts to learn French and return to Montreal, I can hear my inner voice say I’m a “failure,” should “stop trying,” “what’s the point,” or “you’ll just quit again in the future.” But I also know I’d never say that to my wife, children, a family member, a friend — shit, I wouldn’t say that to a stranger on the street. So why I am giving more grace to a stranger than myself?

No, what I’d say to a friend is that there’s always today — or tomorrow — to continue. It’s okay to have paused. What might motivate you to start again? There’s opportunity in this interpretation of self.

Maybe I can still learn French.