The“F” Word: Defining failure in mountaineering

"You didn't fail—you got higher than most people ever will."

"Coming home safely is the real summit."

"It’s not a failure, it’s just a learning experience."

When I got home from Peru, the well-meaning comfort started immediately. Everyone wanted to soften the blow, refusing to let me use the one word that felt accurate: failed.

I couldn't even be mad at them, because I’ve done the exact same thing. When my husband's basketball team lost in the state championship game, I stood there trying to find the silver lining. I used the exact same mountain metaphor, telling them that even if they didn't reach the absolute top, they still made it higher than almost every other team in the state. I wanted so badly to protect them from the sting of falling short.

Then I found myself on the receiving end of that same comfort.

Unpacking barely used gear, the silver linings just felt misplaced. Reframing the trip into a win just because I went, or treating basic safety as the grand prize, didn't change the reality of the outcome.

Why is "failure" such a taboo word?

I set a clear objective in Peru, and I didn't reach it. I failed the goal. I'm okay saying that. What I'm working through now is why we're all so hesitant to name it—and where the line actually sits between a failed objective and a smart decision.

Alan Arnette, a well-known mountaineer and chronicler of Everest seasons, famously said: "It’s not a failure, it’s a non-summit. It’s only a failure if you didn’t learn something."

It’s a great quote. It sounds wise, compassionate. But after Peru, I had to ask myself: Is "non-summit" a helpful distinction, or is it just a polite cop-out?

On paper, separating the person from the outcome makes sense. You can’t control how your red blood cells respond to thin air on any given Tuesday. If an uncontrollable variable shuts down the expedition, did you actually fail? Or did the environment just render the goal impossible?

That’s where the definition gets messy.

Because while I couldn't control the altitude, I did have process goals I set for myself—like managing my emotions and not letting the overwhelming weight of the environment take over. In the moment, it felt like my emotions got the best of me. It felt like I cracked under the mental pressure before my legs ever gave out.

But if my mind pulled the plug, isn't that the definition of failing a process goal?

Or is there a deeper paradox at play? Maybe turning around when you're emotionally overwhelmed in high-risk terrain isn't a failure of self-control at all. Maybe it’s the exact opposite: making a cold, safe decision in a place where stubbornness can get you killed.

But coming home alive didn’t feel like a victory… It felt like the baseline prerequisite for stepping onto a mountain in the first place. You don't train for months just to return unharmed; you train to accomplish a goal safely.

Calling Peru a failure isn't self-loathing, and it isn't an admission of weakness. It’s an accurate audit.

The objective failed. The goal was missed. But making the call to turn around when I still had energy, before an uncomfortable situation becomes a dangerous rescue, was a lesson in decision-making.

Maybe the true maturity of a climber isn't finding a way to reframe every failure into a hidden win. Maybe it’s learning to sit comfortably with the word failed, owning the disappointment without letting it diminish the work, and using the data to show up stronger for the next peak.

How do you define failure in your own goals or pursuits? Do you tend to reframe missing an objective, or do you prefer to call it what it is? Drop your thoughts in the comments below.