Lesslee Dort

The English poet Alexander Pope originally said, “To err is human, to forgive, divine.” He included this line in his 1711 work, An Essay on Criticism. Now, the phrase is often used to acknowledge the common human tendency to make mistakes.

Nobody sets out to make a mistake. And yet, everyone makes mistakes. Mistakes rarely feel good in the moment — more often, it comes with a flush of embarrassment, a frustrated sigh, or the classic forehead slap. There is good news. If we can shift our perspective, mistakes can be more than uncomfortable blunders; they can be gold mines for growth.

That shift doesn’t come easily, though. A friend and I were talking about this very topic just last week. We concluded that basic human instinct is often to blame others for, cover up, or ignore mistakes. But doing so stunts the very growth those errors can provide. All one needs to do is open a history book to see how ignoring mishaps can lead to repetition and regret. But for the moment, I’m more interested in the everyday misfires we make as friends, partners, and coworkers; in how we, as individuals, become better, wiser, and stronger through the simple act of learning from what went wrong.

Here’s a story from my past that beautifully, comically illustrates the gift of learning from mistakes.

It was the late 1980s. My husband and I were two young professionals living just outside Chicago. We were full of ambition and optimism, and ready to buy our first home. We took our first step into the housing market.

We chose a raised ranch with a full, unfinished basement. Basements, we believed, were essential. Both of us had grown up with one, and we considered them non-negotiable. I had little knowledge of how a house works. Growing up in my family, girls weren’t automatically taught about house or car repairs. Home economics (think sewing and cooking) was a high school class. Nevertheless, we were eager, energetic, and had good jobs — great conditions for life’s crash courses.

One stormy night, we were curled up in bed, windows cracked just enough to hear the satisfying rhythm of rain. Ahhh. Then the power cut out. Romantic that I am, I imagined candlelit reading and cozy conversation. My husband bolted upright and uttered two words that would change the trajectory of our evening: “Sump pump.”

What I didn’t know at the time was that our sump pump depended on electricity to operate and keep excess water from flooding our basement. Without power, it sat silent while water began seeping into the basement.

We leapt into action. My husband began hauling buckets of water up the basement stairs and out into the night. I took what I thought was the more efficient route and dumped my buckets of water into the utility sink right next to the sump pump. Easy. Quick. Efficient. Right?

For a good 20 minutes, we labored in parallel — he sweating and climbing; me breezily dumping and feeling smug. Finally, he asked what I was doing. I proudly explained my shortcut. He stared at me like I’d sprouted wings and said, “Lesslee, the sink drains directly into the sump.”

Oh.

So, while he had been hauling water out, I had been dumping it right back in. I wasn’t making things worse exactly, but I wasn’t helping. And once that was clarified, I joined him on the stairs, hauling my fair share.

We got through it. The storm ended. The basement dried. We installed a battery backup for the sump pump. And I gained a lifelong lesson: there’s no shortcut to wisdom.

Our first home generously provided us with a thousand little learning moments like that one. Each mistake taught us something specific, but the biggest gift was this: I realized I learn best through experience. I’ve tried since then to look at every mistake not as a failure, but as a clue. A breadcrumb on the trail to better decision-making.

As Henry Ford said, “The only real mistake is the one from which we learn nothing.” That sums it up beautifully. Of course, it sounds cliche to say, “Learn from your mistakes.” But when you live it — when you’re standing ankle-deep in storm water — it becomes more than a motivational quote. It becomes truth. And here’s what that truth looks like in practice:

First, I’ve learned to pause. Breathe. Take a wider view. Most mistakes happen when we’re focused too narrowly on what’s right in front of us and charge ahead without considering how it connects to everything else, like a sink draining into a sump pump.

Second, I’ve learned to make and appreciate checklists. Not frantic, scribbled lists, but thoughtful, well-planned ones. They help us catch the things we didn’t even know we were supposed to think about. At its core, a checklist is a thinking tool that prompts us to consider what we might otherwise overlook.

And finally, I’ve come to understand that trying to avoid all mistakes is, itself, a mistake. Life isn’t meant to be foolproof. If you’re stretching, growing, or trying something new, mistakes will happen. That’s not failure. That’s living.

So yes, to err is human. And when we’re lucky, it’s also a great story to tell your kids when they experience their first home hiccup. I wouldn’t trade that soggy night or my sink shortcut for anything.

Lesslee Dort is a writer who hopes her essays and guided journals inspire readers to pause, reflect, and connect with themselves and those around them. Copies of her books are available for purchase at The Alpena News and Amazon. Reach Lesslee via email at lesslee@regardingthejourney.com. Read her here on the third Thursday of each month.