If you’re still standing after these 10 experiences, you’re more resilient than 99% of people

Resilience isn’t loud.

It’s the quiet habit of getting up one more time than life knocks you down.

If you’ve lived through any of the moments below and kept going, you’re already operating at a high level. Not because it didn’t hurt—but because you let pain shape you without letting it shrink you.

Let's start.

1. Losing someone before you were ready

Grief doesn’t negotiate. If you’ve buried a parent, a friend, or the version of a relationship you thought would last forever—and you still show up for your life—you’ve built a deep kind of strength.

Loss forces you to carry two truths at once: “This hurts” and “I can still move.” That’s the essence of resilience.

Practice that keeps you steady: tiny rituals. Keep a day on the calendar to remember, cook their favorite meal, or walk the route you took together. Rituals turn raw pain into a container you can hold.

2. Starting over from zero

New city. New job. New identity. When you willingly (or unwillingly) walk away from a known map, you trade comfort for possibility.

The first weeks feel like static—strange grocery stores, no “regulars,” silence in your inbox. If you kept putting one foot in front of the other until the unfamiliar turned into normal, you’ve proved you can rebuild.

Micro-move that accelerates the process: join one recurring thing with strangers—Tuesday run club, Thursday trivia, Saturday volunteer shift. Familiar faces beat “networking” for building a real support net.

3. Failing in public

Bombing a pitch. Posting work you believed in and hearing crickets. Getting critical feedback with witnesses. If you didn’t disappear into a perfectionist cave afterward—if you shipped again—you built the muscle most people never touch: tolerance for visible imperfection.

I’ve mentioned this before, but the key is a “post-mortem, not a funeral.” Write three lines: one thing you’d repeat, one you’d change, one you’ll test next time. Close the doc. Schedule “next time.”

4. Carrying someone else’s hard season

Caring for a sick partner. Showing up for a child’s rough year. Holding space for a friend through divorce.

Real caregiving is logistics plus love—appointments, meals, rides, and the emotional labor of staying steady when someone you love is unsteady. If you did that without erasing yourself entirely, your capacity is elite.

Guardrail that matters: the helper’s hour. One sacred hour a week that’s purely for you—no catch-up chores. Read, walk, call a friend. This isn’t indulgence; it’s maintenance for a long road.

5. Climbing out of a money hole

Debt. A layoff. A savings account that screamed “are you kidding?” If you stared down numbers that made your stomach drop and still set up auto-transfers, still called the lender, still made a plan—you proved you can choose reality over shame. That single choice is rare.

Keep the edge sharp: move wins into visibility. A sticky note with your balance trend, a progress bar in a tracker, or a “celebrate every $500 chunk” rule. Momentum feeds on proof.

6. Facing your own mind

Anxiety that hijacks sleep. A season of depression that turned mornings into mountains.

If you asked for help, experimented with tools, and named what was happening without turning it into your entire identity—you practiced advanced-level resilience.

Low-drama tool that compounds: the three-by-three. Three ten-minute walks a day, three people you can text “bad brain, please send memes,” and three sentences a night capturing one win, one feeling, one plan. Small, boring care beats heroic self-improvement.

7. Choosing truth over belonging

Telling your family who you really are. Ending a relationship that looks great on paper. Leaving a team when the values didn’t match yours.

The cost can be friends, holidays, stability. If you still chose the honest path, you proved you can stomach short-term loneliness for long-term alignment.

To keep the courage lit: build a “lighthouse list”—five people (alive, dead, or authors you’ve never met) who remind you that integrity is worth it. Re-read them on shaky days.

8. Recovering from a self-made mess

We all blow it. Some of us blow it big: said the thing, spent the money, burned the bridge.

If you made amends where possible, repaired behavior (not just words), and accepted the timeline of trust returning slowly, you did the bravest thing: you let remorse become responsibility.

Maintenance mode: a one-line ledger anyone could audit—“What I did to rebuild trust today.” Doesn’t need to be seen by others to work; it needs to be specific.

9. Living without the usual safety nets

Growing up without a stable home base. Moving through adulthood without family backstop.

Learning to ask for help late. If you’ve kept your life afloat while building community from scratch, your day-to-day is harder than most people realize.

You’re carrying competence and loneliness at the same time—and still paying your bills, making your meals, and texting people back.

Upgrade that changes everything: move from favors to agreements. “Can you water my plants while I’m gone?” becomes “I’ll do your airport run if you’ll do mine.” Reciprocity beats heroics for building durable ties.

10. Getting back up after a dream cracked

The band didn’t take off. The grad program wasn’t a fit. The company shipped your idea without you. When a dream fractures, most people either cling to the shards or abandon the whole category.

If you paused, grieved, and then drafted the next attempt—new angle, new collaborators, new scale—you’re using the most underrated part of resilience: creative persistence.

Fuel for the long haul: keep a failure museum. Screenshots, ticket stubs, rejection emails—labeled with what they taught you. It sounds odd, but a shelf of “almosts” turns into a map for your “actually.”

Three quick anecdotes from the road

The Saturday I almost ghosted the race
A few years back, I trained for a local 10K mostly to prove to myself I could stick with something boring. Two nights before, I slept four hours.

On race morning, I stared at the ceiling and negotiated with myself for an hour. I went anyway. I ran the first two miles too fast (classic) and wanted to quit by mile three.

Then a stranger handed me a cup of water and said, “Just get to that tree.” The tree was 50 yards away. I got there.

Then I picked another landmark. I finished ugly and happy. The medal wasn’t the point. It was the reminder: resilience doesn’t require heroic mood. It requires the next tiny target.

The client pitch that tanked
I once pitched a campaign I loved to a brand that did not love it back.

They didn’t just pass—they dismantled it, live, with a room full of people. I walked out vibrating with embarrassment and considered deleting the deck forever.

Instead, I sent a thank-you email for their specificity (after a walk and a sandwich), salvaged two ideas, and repitched them to a different client a month later—with adjustments.

That second pitch hit. Resilience was not “ignore the criticism.” It was “extract the useful parts and ship again.”

The year of caretaking
A close relative needed help navigating a maze of appointments. My calendar turned into a sparring match between work and waiting rooms.

I kept a “bag that means I’m okay”—paperback, nuts, charger, water. I learned hospital coffee tastes like despair, but hallway laughs with a tired nurse do wonders.

We made it through. The lesson wasn’t “be selfless.” It was “add oxygen to your own mask daily, even if it’s a five-minute walk in a parking lot.”

What all of these experiences have in common

• You felt the feeling and still chose an action. Resilience lives in verbs, not vibes.

• You lowered the altitude. Not “fix my life,” but “send the email,” “walk to the tree,” “stir the pot.”

• You built or borrowed structure. Rituals, lists, calendars, people. Systems are the scaffolding emotions climb on.

• You let meaning catch up later. You didn’t force a lesson on day two. You showed up until a lesson emerged.

How to keep your edge without burning out

• One-corner rule: improve one corner of your life 1% this week—desk, sleep, breakfast, budget. Small wins make big loads carryable.

• Recovery appointments: block two 30-minute slots for activities that downshift your nervous system (reading, stretching, walking, calling a friend). Guard them like meetings.

• Ask for help with nouns, not feelings. “Can you bring soup?” lands better than “I’m overwhelmed.” You can share feelings later; first get a tangible assist.

• Choose a motto for hard days. Something bite-sized: “One more brick.” “To the tree.” “Ugly finish is still a finish.”

• Don’t make identity from injury. You’re not “the person who lost X” or “the one who failed Y.” You’re the person who kept going—and that identity scales.

Some final thoughts 

You don’t earn resilience by avoiding pain.

You earn it by staying in the room with your life.

If even two of these experiences are in your rearview and you’re still moving, give yourself credit you rarely do. Then pick the smallest useful action you can take today: send a text, book the appointment, open the doc, lace the shoes.

You don’t have to feel brave to be brave.

You just have to be the person who tries again.