Epic Fail to Stellar Recovery
- Paula Trammell Harris, Ph.D.
- Mar 21
- 7 min read
Updated: Aug 27
An 8-minute read | August 2025
The email arrived at 11:47 PM.
"We need to talk. Tomorrow. My office. 9 AM sharp."
My colleague Sarah's hands shook as she read it again. Twenty-three years of building her reputation as a psychologist who had it all figured out, and it was about to crumble because of one devastating mistake she thought she'd buried. The kind of mistake that doesn't just end careers—it destroys everything you've built your identity around.
She called me from her car in the hospital parking lot, engine off, her voice barely a whisper. "Paula, I think I'm about to lose everything."
Three missed calls from her supervisor. Four from the colleague who'd discovered what she'd done. The weight in her voice sounded like drowning from the inside.
By morning, half the staff would know. By afternoon, her clients would be reassigned. By next week, she'd be explaining to her daughter why Mommy's "important job helping people" was gone.
But what happened next changed everything we both thought we knew about failure...
The Lie We're All Living
Here's what they don't tell you about perfectionism: It's not protecting you—it's slowly poisoning everyone around you.
Right now, someone is:
Lying awake at 3 AM, replaying their failures while their partner sleeps, untouchable
Watching their teenager shut down because they're terrified of disappointing you
Leading a team that's afraid to take risks because one mistake could destroy them
Carrying secrets that are literally eating them alive
Every time you hide your struggles, edit your stories, or present that flawless facade, you're not just lying to others—you're teaching them that their humanity is shameful.
What if everything you believe about failure is backwards?
When Everything Falls Apart
Let me take you back to where this really started. Three months before that email. Before the investigation. Before Sarah almost lost everything.
Her client's name was Zara. Seventeen. Honor roll student working three jobs to support her family. The kind of kid everyone points to and says, "See? If she can do it, anyone can."
But when Zara sat across from Sarah in her office that Tuesday afternoon, her usual composed front was cracking like ice under pressure.
"Dr. Johnson," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the hum of the air conditioning. "My mom tells everyone I'm going to be the first in our family to graduate college. She works double shifts and brags to her coworkers about me. My little sister draws pictures of me in a graduation cap."
She paused, her hands trembling in her lap.
"What happens when I prove them all wrong?"
Sarah's first instinct was textbook perfect: Reassure her. Give her coping strategies. Tell her she was capable and brilliant and had nothing to worry about. Be the flawless professional who always knew what to say.
Instead, she did something that would haunt her for months.
She lied.
The Descent
"Zara," Sarah said with that calm, therapeutic voice she'd perfected over two decades, "successful people don't think that way. You need to reframe your mindset and focus on your strengths."
She gave her a handout on positive thinking. Scheduled a follow-up. Sent her away with empty reassurances and zero human connection.
What Sarah didn't tell her:
That she'd failed her licensing exam twice before passing
That she'd been fired from her first job for "lack of clinical judgment"
That she still had panic attacks before difficult sessions
That the night before, she'd sat in that same chair, wondering if she was fooling everyone, including herself
I watched from the office next door as Zara walked out, shoulders straight, mask back in place. Another "successful" session. Another person convinced Sarah had all the answers.
Two weeks later, Zara was hospitalized after a suicide attempt.
The note in her backpack said: "I can't keep pretending to be perfect when I'm falling apart inside.
Even Dr. Johnson thinks successful people don't struggle like this."
Rock Bottom
The ethics investigation lasted three months. Not because Sarah had done anything illegal, but because her "therapeutic approach of maintaining professional distance" had contributed to a client's crisis. The reviewing board wanted to understand how a licensed psychologist could miss such obvious signs of distress.
Sarah knew the answer, but it was too devastating to admit: She'd been so busy protecting her image as the "expert who never struggles" that she'd failed to see Zara's pain. Or worse—she'd seen it and chosen her reputation over her client's healing.
The silence in that conference room wasn't just quiet—it was suffocating. Sarah could hear the fluorescent lights humming overhead. Someone's pen clicking. The scratch of note-taking. The committee chair's glasses being cleaned, over and over.
"Dr. Johnson," the lead investigator said, her voice cutting through the silence, "help us understand. You've been practicing for over twenty years. How did you miss this?"
I sat in the waiting room outside, having driven Sarah there for moral support. Through the glass door, I watched my colleague—my friend—face the potential end of everything she'd worked for. I knew what Zara had been trying to tell her. The isolation. The weight of everyone's expectations. The crushing fear that if people saw who you really were—flawed, struggling, human—they'd realize you were a fraud.
But what happened next changed everything.
The Revelation
Instead of defending herself, explaining her approach, or blaming the circumstances, Sarah did something that surprised everyone in that room, including me.
She broke.
"I missed it," she said, her voice cracking, "because I was too terrified to admit that I struggle too. I've spent twenty-three years pretending I have all the answers because I thought that's what being a good psychologist meant. But Zara needed to see that successful people struggle and survive. Instead, she got another perfect adult who couldn't relate to her pain."
The silence that followed was different. Softer. More human.
"I failed her," Sarah continued, tears she'd been holding back for months finally falling, "because I failed to be real. And if that costs me my license, at least she'll know the truth: Struggling doesn't make you broken. It makes you human."
The committee chair—Dr. Martinez, who we'd both known for years but never really talked to—leaned forward.
"Sarah," she said quietly, "last year, my son was hospitalized for an eating disorder. You know what he told me in family therapy? That he felt like he had to be perfect because everyone in his life seemed to have it all figured out. Including me."
What happened next would reshape everything we both thought we knew about healing, connection, and the courage to be imperfect.
The Transformation
The investigation didn't end Sarah's career. It saved it.
The board's recommendation was revolutionary: Instead of punishment, Sarah was required to develop a new therapeutic approach based on "authentic vulnerability" and pilot it with supervision. The program would focus on helping clients understand that struggle and success aren't opposites—they're partners.
Six months later, I watched Sarah sit across from Zara again. But this time, everything was different.
"I owe you an apology," Sarah said, no notes, no professional distance, just truth. "When you told me you were scared of failing, I should have said, 'Me too. And here's how I've learned to survive it.'"
Zara's response floored us both: "You mean you actually get scared too? Like, really scared?"
"Terrified," Sarah admitted. "The night before our first session, I almost called in sick because I was afraid I wouldn't know how to help you."
For the first time since we'd known her, Zara smiled. Not the polite, perfect smile she wore for everyone else, but something real.
"Can you tell me about a time you really messed up?" she asked.
So Sarah did. She told her about failing her licensing exam. About the job she lost. About the presentation where she froze for thirty seconds that felt like thirty years. About the client she'd misdiagnosed early in her career and how she'd learned from that mistake.
"And you're still a good psychologist?" Zara asked.
"Maybe a better one because of those failures," Sarah said. "They taught me things success never could."
The New World
Today, Zara is a peer counselor at her college, specifically working with first-generation students struggling with imposter syndrome. Not despite her breakdown, but because of what she learned from it.
She doesn't tell them they should be grateful or think positive. Instead, she says, "This is terrifying, isn't it? Let me tell you about the scariest moment of my life and how I survived it."
The program Sarah developed—"Authentic Healing"—has become a model that other practices, including ours at SHIFT, are adopting. We're training therapists to share appropriate struggles, to model resilience instead of just talking about it, to create spaces where being human isn't a weakness.
But the real transformation happened in both of us.
Last month, Sarah gave a keynote to 300 mental health professionals. Instead of opening with her credentials, she opened with her failures. Instead of pretending she had all the answers, she shared her questions. Instead of being the expert on the stage, she became a fellow traveler on the journey.
The standing ovation wasn't for her expertise. It was for her humanity.
Watching my colleague transform her deepest failure into her greatest strength taught me something profound: The people who change the world aren't those who never fall down—they're the ones brave enough to fall publicly and get up authentically.
Your Moment of Truth
Right now, someone in your life is drowning in perfectionism, convinced they're the only one who struggles. They're watching you, waiting to see if successful people are allowed to be human.
You have a choice to make:
Continue the lie: Keep your struggles hidden. Maintain the facade. Let them believe that achievement means never falling down. This is the safer path for you—and the more dangerous one for them.
Break the cycle: Own your failures. Share your real story. Show them that struggle isn't the opposite of success—it's the pathway to it.
Here's what I've learned from watching Sarah's journey: The people who need you most aren't waiting for your perfection. They're waiting for your permission to be imperfect.
When you hide your struggles, you rob others of the chance to connect with your humanity. When you share them authentically, you give them something more valuable than advice—you give them hope.
The Question That Wakes You Up
At 3 AM, when you're lying awake replaying your failures, when the shame feels like it might suffocate you, when you're convinced everyone else has it figured out, ask yourself this:
What if this struggle is exactly what someone else needs to see?
What if your failure could prevent someone else's breakdown? What if your vulnerability could save someone's life? What if the thing you're most ashamed of is the thing that could create your deepest impact?
Your scars aren't your shame—they're your credentials.
What failure are you ready to transform from shame into strength?
Because you must embrace the fall to appreciate the save.
At SHIFT Behavioral Health, we believe the most powerful question you can ask is: "What else could be true?"
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Legal Disclaimer: This blog provides educational information and should not replace professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always consult with qualified healthcare providers for personalized guidance.
If you are experiencing a mental health crisis, please contact 988 (Suicide & Crisis Lifeline) immediately or go to your nearest emergency room.
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