'Losing Control; Finding Direction' | Rosie Cahalin | TEDxRossall School
URL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zmn5FSBRLaE Video ID: Zmn5FSBRLaE ============================================================ Perseverance doesn't often look the way we imagine it. It's not always bold or dramatic. More often, it's quiet. It's a decision made in private. It happens when no one is watching and no one is cheering. And sometimes, it can be as simple as standing up the day after everything's fallen apart. For me, that understanding of perseverance didn't come from reading a quote or listening to a speech. It came from failure, from disappointment, and from trying again when things felt like they couldn't be fixed. From a young age, I had always had my dreams and career fixated on military life. So just last year, I began my application to the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst. For months, I prepared for it physically, mentally, and emotionally. The military had always represented more than just a career decision to me. It was a calling rooted in discipline and service. And growing up, I was drawn to the sense of unity that defined military life, the idea of belonging to something greater than myself, and of being part of a team that stood for duty and integrity. I admired the structure, the leadership, and the unwavering sense of direction that came with it. When I started my application, I knew it demanded everything. I dedicated myself to early morning runs, strength training, and endurance work in order to meet the physical demands expected from Sandhurst. I practiced leadership exercises, decision-making, and communication under pressure and immersed myself in the val in the academyy's values and history in order to ensure I was prepared for the interviews and selection processes. Every step from refining my fitness to perfecting my knowledge felt like a small part of a large journey towards something in which I had envisioned for years. This wasn't just about passing a test. It was about proving to myself that I had the character and resilience to earn a place among those who serve. However, it was during my application that I received a medical rejection. And at that moment, it felt as if though the foundations I'd spent years building collapsed within seconds. This wasn't a rejection based on effort, ability, or determination. It was procedural, impersonal, and completely beyond my control. The decision stemmed from a condition I was born with, a duplex kidney. The condition meant that my kidney had two drainage systems instead of one, which led to frequent infections and complications when I was younger. At the age of seven, I had surgery to correct this in which the added drainage system causing the infection was completely removed. And through years of monitoring and uncertainty, I remained asymptomatic since the age of seven and was completely cleared of health. There's a particular kind of frustration that comes with being told no when you've done everything right. And that's why my rejection hit so hard. It wasn't a reflection of who I am now, but of who I once was. A technicality frozen in time defining a path that no longer exists. To be turned away, not for a lack of fitness, dedication, or discipline, but because of something long resolved felt deeply unfair. And it was painful to realize that a condition I had fought so hard to overcome as a child could still stand between me and the life I had spent years preparing for. Ultimately, it was a rejection like this that left me questioning my value, strength, and even my direction. But I didn't walk away. I appealed the rejection. Now, that appeal wasn't exciting nor inspiring. It was mostly letters, evidence, back and forth communication. It was slow, at times demoralizing, but worst of all, it gave no guarantees, but I followed through step by step until I finally received the acceptance on the condition that remained asymatic. This wasn't a triumph. This was just a relief. At that point, I thought I had everything figured out, but the truth is, my challenges weren't over. Around 4 weeks after being accepted, I woke up with a sharp pain in my right side. Unable to walk or stand with a rapidly growing temperature of 39°, it was clear I was incredibly unwell. My parents rushed me to the hospital in which I received various scans, tests, and procedures. And after a long day, these results arose. I had a lingering kidney infection that was quickly traveling around my body, and I was extremely close to becoming septic. This infection was on the same kidney I had been symptom free from from 10 years. The infection pulled me out of training and straight into a hospital bed for six days with a further course of antibiotics for over two weeks. All physical progress I worked for, fitness, strength, stamina was lost, and it felt as though I'd been stripped of what I had worked months to achieve. It was while in hospital that I refused to accept just how ill I was. And it wasn't until a friend came to visit me after a short walk to a cafe that I realized just how drastic the physical impact the infection was having upon my body. Now, the hardest part wasn't the illness. It was the emotional toll that came with it. Feeling like I had wasted time, feeling like I was starting over, but worst of all, feeling like I didn't have the strength to do it again. It was during this recovery period that I came across Admiral William McCraven's speech in his book, Make Your Bed. He talks about how daily acts of discipline become a foundation when everything else is uncertain. Making your bed each morning may sound trivial, but for him it represented order in the middle of chaos and control in the face of unpredictability. That message stayed with me because when I had no big victories, I still had small choices. I could show up. I could rest properly. I could eat deliberately. I could also make my bed. These were small actions, but they were symbolic. These were my acts of resilience. Perseverance isn't about perfection. It's about continuity. The willingness to begin again and again even when everything's uphill. And I'm very aware that many won't strive for the goals I had. Disappointment can come in various forms. Maybe you lost a match, didn't get a part in a production, or it may even be academic. When I got my GCSE results, they weren't what I had hoped for. I remember looking at the numbers and feeling ashamed. It's hard to explain how deep the academic disappointment can cut, especially when you've tried and especially when those around you seem to be doing better. It made me feel like I wasn't capable and maybe I just didn't have what others had. I was thrown into a new world of subjects I hadn't studied, decided 4 days before entering year 12, and my future felt nothing but uncertain. But again, I chose to continue. Now, I didn't suddenly become brilliant. I became consistent. I started paying attention to what I didn't understand. Gave more time to my strengths than my weaknesses. I asked more questions. And over time, my my results reflected that shift. In my year 12 set of mock exams, I received two A's and an A star. Not because I'm naturally gifted, but because I refuse to let a bad result become a permanent identity. And that's what perseverance really is. Not natural talent, not motivation, not confidence, but the refusal to give up even when everything's uphill. What connects all these moments, whether it be Sandhurst, illness, or academics, was one single mindset. Keep going. Not because things felt good, often they didn't. And not because I was sure I'd succeed, because I wasn't, but because the alternative of giving up would have meant letting a single moment decide my entire future. In his speech, McCraven's reflection on failure during the Navy Seal training reveals a powerful truth about human resilience. When he says, "It is during the darkest moments that you must focus to see the light." He isn't simply referring to physical hardship. He's talking about the mental and emotional endurance that defines true character. The seals deliberately push candidates to the point of failure because that is where the facade of strength falls away and authentic grit emerges. It's in those moments of exhaustion, pain, and self-doubt that individuals are forced to confront with who they really are. It's not about how many times you succeed when conditions are easy. It's about how you your body responds when everything in you wants to give up. Failure, as McCraven implies, isn't the opposite of success. It's an essential part of it. The darkest moments become a crucible for growth, stripping away comfort and ego to reveal perseverance and purpose. Learning to see the light in those darkest moments means choosing perspective over despair, focus over fear, and determination over defeat. These words resonate far beyond military life. They remind us that failure is not something to be avoided, but something to be embraced as a test of will. The light he speaks of is not handed to us. It's something we must find even when the path ahead seems obscured. It's in those moments when everything's uncertain that true strength is forged. When I look back, the turning points in my life didn't come from the winds. They came from the moments where I had every reason to stop and I didn't. Discipline and perseverance go hand in hand. Discipline is the system. Perseverance is the spirit. And you need both. You need to do the work when you don't feel like it. You need to show up when progress isn't visible. But most of all, you need to trust that rebuilding is still building. I don't pretend to have it all figured out. I absolutely don't. I still face setbacks, doubts, and days where motivation is nowhere to be found. But the truth is that I now no longer see failure as the end of the story. And while I'm sure my 15-year-old self may be spiraling in the lack of control I have, I really do see it as part of a process. Perseverance isn't a single moment of strength. It's a series of small choices to keep on moving even when everything's uphill. I've learned to make those choices and I really do believe that anyone can. Thank you.