Part II: The Shelter of the Excuse by Niles Pavley

 

Part II: The Shelter of the Excuse

Why We Build Elaborate Stories to Escape the Sting of Failure:

When failure visits us again and again across time, we don’t always meet it hand in hand with honesty. We meet it with stories. Fabrications. “The test was unfair.” “The boss was biased.” “The timing wasn’t right.” “The world doesn’t get me.” These aren’t always lies, but often, they are only partial truths, worn like a bulletproof vest meant to hide the impacts of failure. 

Excuses have a bad reputation. We treat them as the language of the sick, the lazy, the dishonest. But what if excuses are more than just avoidance? What if they are forms of self-protection worn like armor, imperfect attempts to grasp at dignity when we feel stripped of it?

To excuse is to narrate, and humans are, above all else, storytellers. It's in our blood from the beginning of time. And when we fall short, it is no different, we instinctively try to shape that experience into something we can live with. An excuse is, at its heart, a refusal to let failure become our identity. It says to our mind, “This isn’t the full story.” And in that way, it’s not fully cowardice, but more so survival.

The danger arises, however, when shelter becomes a prison. When we rely so heavily on explanations and white lies that we stop looking inward on why the situation happened in the first place. When the story we build becomes so polished, so rehearsed, so perfect that there’s no room left for growth, only meaningless defense. Over time, the excuse ceases to be a shield and becomes a mask.

Why do we do this? Because the truth, especially personal truth, can be unbearable to fathom. To admit: “I was unprepared,” “I rushed,” “I doubted myself,” “I didn’t ask for help,”—these are not merely just admissions of error. They are acknowledgments of one's vulnerability. And vulnerability, in a world obsessed with strength, is dangerous. At least for now.

But there is always another way to see it. If we treat excuses not as final words, but as first or second drafts, they become useful to us. They show us what we’re afraid of, what we didn't do, and why we didn't do it. What we’re unwilling to face. What we still don’t fully understand about ourselves. When the excuse says, “I failed because of this.” The necessary reflection asks, “Why did that matter so much to me?”

When we begin to examine our excuses with gentle scrutiny, not judgment, we open the door to further transformation. We discover not only what went wrong, but what was lacking in our soul that made life go that way.

So if you find yourself reaching for an excuse, don’t punish yourself just yet. Ask why it’s there. Trace its shape. Follow its thread until it is completely unraveled. It may just lead you to the very part of yourself that’s waiting to heal.

And in that gentle unraveling, you may discover a deeper story—one that needs no excuse at all.