Why Coming in Second Might Be the Best Thing That Ever Happens to You

I’m standing in the gallery in downtown Sarasota wearing a dress I bought in Rhodes, Greece, my stomach fluttering with butterflies. I’m so nervous for them. We are only moments away from finding out who is the next Outstanding Artist. Not only will they win the title, but they will also win $25,000. All three finalists could do it. Each of their pieces is amazing and deserves to be number one.

The judges will vote for 50 percent of the decision, and the rest goes to the public. Jake is in the back tallying votes, and I honestly have no idea who it will be. Every discussion around me is centered around who will win and how the others will feel. I think about each of the finalists and imagine what their reaction would be if they win and what it will be if they lose.

I heard a story from the other contestants who were eliminated that one of the finalists had said that she hoped she wouldn't win. She didn't want to win. She wanted one of the other girls to win, because she knew it would mean more to them. This is so very thoughtful and kind, but I also cannot relate. I have always been competitive—not at the expense of others, but to challenge myself along with those who also do their best and have a desire to win.

The House That Had to Win

I grew up in a really competitive house. My dad had to win everything all the time. He could never ever lose or be the worst at something. If we played cards as a family, he would always win at all costs, or else throw down his cards in a fit and stomp off. The rest of us were expected to lose gracefully and were scolded for being poor losers if we accused my dad of cheating (which he often did) or felt glum for not winning.

My mom was also very much about winning. She was the coach of my soccer team for a few years and made us all champions three years in a row, but she had to stop and turn it over to someone else because there were complaints within the league that she was too intense. Some of the parents didn't appreciate her passion and enthusiasm in the games. She yelled at refs and stormed up and down the sidelines telling us to get into position or charge the goalie. My mom told us she stepped down because her nerves and stress level were too high.

There were always competitive games, races, and prizes within my family. My brother and I were always made to compete. Every ice cream cone, candy bar, and front seat privilege was always won by some kind of competition. We had to guess a number in my dad’s head, or race across the grass and touch a tree, or think of a word that starts with a P and ends with a G. Whoever was first got the prize.

Because I was younger than my brother by two and half years and a girl, weaker and several inches shorter, I always lost. I was told I came in second, but I knew I came in last. My brother was faster, smarter, braver, and could spell better and do math faster. He always won. I didn't realize until much later that the games were stacked against me. We never competed for who was more graceful, more flexible, or rode a horse better. We didn't have competitions in drawing, acting, or thoughtfulness.

Striving for Number One

Although I came in last every time and always had to sit in the back seat, I never stopped trying. Every race we ran, I gave it my whole heart. Every ball I threw, I threw it with everything I had. I tried and believed, for some stupid reason, that I could win. I don't know why I kept trying. Somehow my brother, who very much enjoyed beating me and getting the prize each time, always made me feel like I could win. Just before we took off, as our toes touched the very edge of the line and we waited for my dad to blow his whistle, Todd would look at me and say, “Come on, Elli. I know you can do it. Run as fast as you can and see if you can beat me.”

I don't know why I believed him. I pushed myself to run as fast as I could and stretched my arms out to touch the tree, even though my brother already had. I always tried my best and never gave up. I know what it feels like to come in second. I know what it feels like to reach and try and give it everything and still not win. I looked at the finalists and felt crushed for the one who will come in second.

Jake comes out from the back room queuing the camera crew to start rolling. All three contestants are lined up by their paintings nervously awaiting the answer they have been waiting for: Who will be The Outstanding Artist for Season 4?

Jake is of course dragging it out as long as possible as we all shift from one foot to the other. There is a crowd standing there ready to celebrate with the winner. All cameras are poised and capturing the moment. The close-up cameras are panning from face to face, awaiting the reaction. Then it is announced.

The winner gasps audibly, and her face falls into her hands. The two other contestants turn to hug her, and I can see they are truly happy for her. All three of them with Jake hug each other in a giant ball of arms and backs.

The Ache of Almost

These artists have worked so hard, moving from one challenge to the next with no breaks in between. If you are down, you have to pick yourself up. If you are up, you can't get comfortable or you could fall in the next challenge. Painting hours on end each and every day, with a lack of sleep and being far from home. It is truly grueling and pulls the very best out of you. Each of the artists is truly outstanding and deserves the first spot. But today, only one gets to be there.

I come forward to congratulate the winner, but she’s already being mobbed by a crowd of people, so I hug the other contestant and tell her she did amazing and she should be really proud of herself.

Through tears and frustration she says, “I have always been number two. In every contest I have ever been in, I come in second. I just can't win. I’m very happy for ____________, but I just can't seem to win. All that work, all of my efforts, yet I didn't win. It wasn't enough. I have always struggled with not being enough.”

“But your final piece was all about being wrapped in your greatness and not letting yourself be defined by things like this. Of course it’s nice to win, but it doesn’t make you any less of an artist by being second or third. Each of you getting to the finale means you were outstanding.” I tried to console her.

“I know that's right, and it's even what my painting is about. Later I will be ok with it, but right now, I'm frustrated and sad,” she says as the tears of defeat flow.

Better, Not Best

What she doesn’t see is that coming in second is a blessing. She doesn’t know it yet, but being number two is the best place to be. Being number two requires perseverance, grit, and sustainable passion. Each setback and disappointment as you realize you didn't quite get there but came close, propels you to be better. Being number two ingrains in us a long-term habit of commitment to better.

Every race where I saw my brother touch the tree first set in me a profound desire to beat him next time. It pushed my legs to stretch and move faster. It caused me to reach higher and try more. Coming in second made me dig deep and find the place in me where I could believe I could still be the best. Being second gave me the gift of steady, constant, sustained effort to do better. I don't know that I would be where I am today without my brother winning everything. He gave me one of the best gifts in life: to always have something in front of me to strive for.

First place is permission to bask in your glory, kick your feet up, and have nothing else to desire. There is no unrest or frustration to drive you onward. To arrive is a curse of complacency. That contestant didn't know yet that she actually won. She didn't understand that chasing greatness is the very best and most fulfilling way to live. I’d rather live my life reaching, stretching, and growing than wondering if there is more. Spending all your effort and knowing you gave everything is so much more satisfying than coming in first and wondering whether you gave it all, or only just enough to touch the tree first.

The next time you are not chosen, or you come in last, or you put in all your effort and still sell not one piece, know that you are blessed. Be committed to better. Devote yourself to consistent and sustained effort toward being first or having a sell-out show. It is these disappointments that define you. Will it cause you to collapse and shrink back, or will it rally inside of you, frustrate you, drive you to tears and deep sorrow, only to illuminate the greatness inside of you and activate your belief that you can make it to the top? It's not the winning that defines us. It is in the losing where we find what we are made of.

Have you ever given everything and still come in second? How did it affect you?