The Day I Shut Down NASA
This is not a newsflash: Success and failure are touchy subjects for people with self-doubt.
This IS a newsflash: As a leader, your ability and willingness to guide them through it can be transformational.
I know failure. Early in my NASA engineering career, I was responsible for recording jet engine exhaust nozzle temperatures using three infrared (IR) imaging cameras — a cutting-edge, outrageously expensive technology at the time. To shield them from the blazing exhaust, we housed the cameras in cooled boxes with thick glass windows. During one test, though, hot exhaust unexpectedly leaked into a box. The camera inside melted. It was a freak accident no one saw coming.
I was mortified. I was responsible for the system, and I failed. How did I miss this? How could I have made such a stupid mistake? If only I were smarter, or more experienced! We reviewed the series of events leading to the incident, and we saw evidence that, only in hindsight, gave a clue to what would happen. But it only made sense looking back. Yet, I felt like an idiot for missing the signs.
I internalized the failure. I blamed it on my shortcomings, my failure, and my character flaws.
That’s ridiculous. The mistake was not stupid. It wasn’t even a mistake. It could have happened to anyone, including the dozen other intelligent people who were in the control room with me. The technology was so new, none of us were experienced enough to see the warning signs. Yet, in my mind, it was entirely my fault.
When people with impostor syndrome “fail” it’s a billboard announcement about their shortcomings. They didn’t just make a mistake. They are a mistake. It becomes their identity, and it haunts them.
I dragged that oppressive feeling around with me at NASA for a very long time. I was terrified to step into the control room after that. I thought everyone labeled me as “the one who destroyed the IR camera system.”
To make up for the failure, I threw myself into the work. We replaced the damaged camera and designed stronger boxes. On the next test, I was on edge. Midway through, I insisted we shut everything down so I could inspect the cameras. The crew groaned because it would take hours and disrupt the entire operation. But I was terrified of repeating the mistake.
The cameras were fine. They stayed fine for the rest of the project, which yielded groundbreaking data. Everyone celebrated the results. But I couldn’t. I brushed off the praise: “It wasn’t me. It was the team. It was the new boxes. Anyone could have done it.” Instead of owning the success, I pushed it away, convinced it came from anything but me.
I’m thankful that in our gritty, industrial research and development world of PSL, we had the attitude of “Fix what’s broken and move on.” Stuff was always breaking. It was the nature of our testing business. Nobody ever blamed me for the incident. The bosses were understanding. They valued my part on the team, and they got me back in the game. Good thing they did, because it could have gone south pretty quickly for me as a young engineer who loved her job. I would have forever been “the girl who couldn’t make it as a test engineer.” Plus, I would have felt like I let down my entire gender, and I think that would have crushed me.
Psychologist Martin Seligman’s 1988 study in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology showed that a “pessimistic explanatory style” ( the habit of blaming failures on stable, global, and internal causes) raises the risk of stress, depression, and even poor health later in life. People with this mindset interpret setbacks as permanent and personal (“I failed, it’s my fault”), while dismissing successes as external luck. This same pattern was noted by researchers Drs. Pauline Clance and Suzanne Imes, whose clients felt intense pressure to perform and internalized every failure. Their insights led to the identication of impostor syndrome.
How should you respond as a leader? When team members (especially newer ones) internalize failure, help them flip it. Point out the external factors at play, supported by data, so they see it’s not all on them.
Take Steve, who missed a project deadline. Instead of letting him believe it proves he’s incapable, you can say: “Steve, the delay wasn’t on you. Supply chain issues and software bugs were beyond your control. You managed everything within reach exceptionally well, and your problem-solving prevented bigger delays.”
Be careful, though: externalizing failure isn’t about blame. Blame suggests intent or character flaws. Externalizing simply highlights circumstances and glitches while reminding them that failure is an event, not an identity.
The reverse is true for success. Some people push it away, convinced it’s luck or timing. You can give them proof of their contribution. For instance, Alexis led a product launch that exceeded expectations but brushed off praise: “I was just lucky.” You can respond: “Alexis, you spotted the market need, proposed the innovative features, and drove the team under tight deadlines. This success happened because of you. Maybe there was some luck, but your efforts were significant.”
When people internalize their successes, they build true self-assurance. As Thomas Jefferson said, “I’m a great believer in luck, and I find the harder I work, the more I have of it.”