Aces

The familiar rattle of poker chips faded as I looked away from the pile of plastic being pulled slowly away from me. Seconds earlier, I had a flush on the turn against my opponent’s lacklustre double pair, leaving him with a less than three percent chance to win. A river later and my chips were sliding in his direction. The outcome was not in my favour, but there was always the next hand. As two more cards fell before me, I sat back and reminisced about a time when such a situation would mean failure and incompetence…

The car horns roared while a miasma of exhaust enveloped my small frame. It was early 2012, my second week of high school, and I was completely, utterly lost. After waking up at 4 AM, I had taken the bus to catch the train for the final leg of my 30-kilometre expedition to school. Only, I had gotten off at the wrong stop and now found myself in the middle of a chaotic intersection - head spinning and heart pounding. I frantically waved down a taxi and opened the door with sweating hands. After stammering my destination to the driver, I sat on the edge of the back seat, alternating nervous gazes out the window with restless glances at my watch. Five kilometres and an eternity in emotional purgatory later, I reached the train station. Dashing onto the platform, I made my way into the first train in sight. As I let out a heavy sigh, a jolt of anxiety shot through my body. We were moving in the wrong direction. I was on the wrong train.

Failure. Embarrassment. Incompetent. These words flooded my thoughts as I arrived on campus, two hours late. Teary-eyed and devastated, I shuffled into the classroom. I could not help but feel like I was to blame for my unpunctuality. If only I had gotten off at the right stop. Or had taken the time to ensure I was on the right train. Maybe things would have gone my way.

Throughout high school, I would encounter the same feelings of failure, embarrassment, and incompetency. It wasn’t until I began playing poker that I realised how misguided my thinking was. In poker the aim is to win as much money as possible – therefore, it may seem that losing any hand is a failure. However, this is not the case. Every hand is valuable. Every hand has a lesson to offer. Every hand presents a new opportunity to evaluate my probability of winning given the unique cards in front of me, helping me make better decisions in future hands. Even if I am successfully out-bluffed, the “failed” hand teaches me about how my opponent thinks and plays. Rather than view each loss as a setback or reason to feel incapable, poker taught me to see failure as an opportunity to learn and grow, to better take advantage of what is in my control.

Looking back at my first “failed” attempt to get to school, I saw how much I had learned from the experience. The nervousness I felt in the moment had taught me how to make decisions under stress. Getting on the wrong train taught me the importance of thinking clearly in high-pressure scenarios. Asking the conductor for directions helped me learn how to articulate myself clearly while flustered. As these realisations washed over me, I saw that I had focused too long on the outcome, when it was the journey that taught me the most.

...as the next hand was dealt I took a deep breath, eager for a new opportunity. The previous hand had not gone my way, but there would always be another hand to play. All I could do is make the most of what is in my control. I pulled the corner of the cards up and took a quick glimpse: pocket aces.