Triumph and Disaster

If— by Rudyard Kipling is my favorite poem.

I discovered it a few years ago, and there are two lines that have stayed with me ever since:

“If you can meet with Triumph and DisasterAnd treat those two impostors just the same”

I’ve read those words more times than I can count.

But there’s a story about Thomas Edison that has made me think about them a little differently.

When Everything You Built Is Burning

On December 9, 1914, a massive fire tore through Thomas Edison’s laboratory and manufacturing complex in West Orange, New Jersey.

Edison was 67 years old.

Think about that for a minute.

This wasn’t some small setback.

Buildings that represented years of work were burning. Equipment, experiments, records, materials—pieces of what Edison had spent much of his life building—were disappearing in front of him.

His son Charles went looking for him.

Charles later recalled being worried about what the sight might do to his father. At 67 years old, would this finally break him?

Instead, when Edison saw his son, he asked where his wife, Mina, was.

Then he told Charles to go get her—and to bring her friends.

They would never see another fire like this one.

That story has always struck me.

Not because Edison didn’t understand what he was losing.

And not because he somehow found a magical way to make a disaster into something good.

The damn building was still burning.

But somehow, in the middle of it, he was able to see something besides the story that everything was over.

The National Park Service records Edison saying after the fire:

“I am 67, but I'm not too old to make a fresh start.”

And he did.

Two Impostors

I don't know whether Edison was thinking about Kipling that night.

I haven't found reliable evidence that he actually quoted If— while watching the fire, even though versions of that story exist.

But when I picture Edison standing there watching his life's work burn, I can't help but think about my favorite lines.

Triumph and Disaster.

Kipling calls them both impostors.

Disaster being an impostor is fairly easy to understand.

When something goes terribly wrong, it can convince us that the moment is bigger than it really is.

Everything is ruined.

I'll never recover from this.

This changes everything.

I'm done.

Those thoughts can feel like absolute truth when we're standing inside the disaster.

Edison had plenty of reasons to have those thoughts that night.

But here's the part of Kipling's line that I find even more interesting.

He didn't just call Disaster an impostor.

He called Triumph one too.

Triumph Can Lie to Us Too

We don't usually think about success this way.

When life is going well, we want to believe it.

The business is growing.

The bank account looks good.

People recognize what we've accomplished.

The relationship is strong.

We reach a goal we've been chasing.

And there is absolutely nothing wrong with enjoying those things.

Enjoy the hell out of them.

But they can become dangerous when we begin confusing what we've accomplished with who we are.

Triumph can whisper:

I've made it.

This is who I am.

This will last.

And Disaster can whisper:

I've lost it.

This is who I am.

This will last.

Maybe that's why Kipling calls them impostors.

Neither one tells the whole truth about us.

Riding the Baseline

This is something I've come to understand in my own life as riding the baseline.

It doesn't mean we become emotionally flat.

It doesn't mean the good things don't matter.

And it certainly doesn't mean the painful things don't hurt.

When something wonderful happens, feel it.

Celebrate it.

Be proud of it.

When something painful happens, feel that too.

Be disappointed.

Be angry.

Grieve.

Being anchored doesn't mean being unaffected.

The goal isn't to become someone who never moves.

It's learning not to let every high carry us away or every low convince us we're finished.

Riding the baseline is the ability to experience emotion without allowing the emotion to decide who you become or what you do next.

And that's what I see when I think about Edison standing outside that fire.

He didn't need to pretend the fire wasn't happening.

He didn't need to call it a blessing.

He didn't need to know exactly how everything was going to work out.

The fire could be a disaster without Edison becoming the disaster.

There is a difference.

The Fire Is Still the Fire

This is where so much of what I've learned comes back to something simple:

Life is life.

Sometimes life brings Triumph.

Sometimes it brings Disaster.

Most days it brings something somewhere in between.

We don't control all of that.

What we can learn to do is create enough space to see what is actually happening, question the story we're building around it, and decide how we want to meet the moment.

Pause. Perspective. Choice.

Edison couldn't Pause and make the flames stop.

Perspective couldn't rebuild the buildings.

Choice couldn't undo what had already happened.

But there was still something that belonged to him.

What he did next.

That's the part we sometimes forget when we're standing inside our own version of the fire.

Something can be painful without being the end.

Something can be difficult without defining us.

Something can knock us completely off our baseline without taking away our ability to find our way back.

And something wonderful can happen without us needing to build our identity around that either.

Triumph comes.

Disaster comes.

Life keeps moving.

And so do we.

Treat Those Two Impostors Just the Same

I don't think Kipling was telling us not to care.

I think the opposite may be closer to the truth.

Feel all of it.

Just remember that neither the highest moment of your life nor the lowest one gets the final word on who you are.

Edison was 67 years old.

His buildings were burning.

He called for his wife to come see the fire.

And then he started again.

I think about that.

And I think about those two lines I've carried with me for the last few years:

Triumph and Disaster.

Two impostors.

Meet them both.

Feel them both.

Then decide who you want to be when they're standing in front of you.

Because the fire is still the fire.

But what happens next still belongs to you.