On Missing the Mark (And Finding Your Way Back)

What happens inside when you realize you’ve made a faux pas? Maybe you were trying to make a good impression on your Jewish friend’s family, but accidentally desecrated the Sabbath. Or you proudly brought out a bottle of wine, only to learn your guests are all devoutly sober. Suddenly, your good intentions fall flat—and an inner voice kicks in: “What a shame. You should’ve known better. May as well go hide somewhere; you’ve lost face.”

But let’s pause there.

Did you know the original meaning of the word sin is simply “to miss the mark”? That’s all. Just like an archer drawing back their bow: one arrow misses, the next over-corrects, but the next may well hit the bull’s-eye. Missing doesn’t discredit you from being an archer-–it’s just feedback on which side of the mark you are.

Now, ask yourself—does any other species do what we do after making a mistake?

Picture a young squirrel leaping from branch to branch. It misjudges the distance, lands awkwardly, and has to scramble to regain balance. Does it freeze in embarrassment? Hide from the other squirrels, ashamed of the stumble? Of course not. It adjusts, recalculates, and makes the next jump with better aim.

We humans can be like that too—when we’re clear on what we’re chasing. When we know the report card isn’t the end goal, but just a milestone. When we understand that the speech we write today is just one stepping stone toward becoming a powerful communicator, a journalist, or a leader. That the compliment we give someone today isn’t about being liked right now—it’s about growing into the kind of person who brings warmth and connection into the world.

So how do we get so off-track that we start worrying more about our image than our direction?

The roots run back into our preverbal years. At that age, we’re practically addicted to our parents’ affection. But one day we push too far, we cross a line, and something changes. We sense a withdrawal. Their love, which once seemed unconditional, now came with stipulations.

Can you imagine the sense of betrayal?

Here we are, trying to make sense of love and limits. That moment of feeling cut off doesn’t usually come with an explanation. What if our parents had been able to say:

“You know, sweetheart, we’ve been overextending ourselves to keep you happy. But we’ve realized that’s not healthy for us. We have needs, too. From now on, we’re going to set some boundaries—and this doesn’t mean we don’t want you to be happy, but rather that we’re setting the priorities that benefit the family as a whole. Sometimes we cater to you, and sometimes you cater to us. Deal?”

If we’d heard that as a child, we might have learned quickly that love and boundaries can coexist. That when they put their foot down, it isn’t a judgment—it’s a way to keep the relationship sustainable.

The more we understand human nature—our own and others’—the more life makes sense, and the easier it is to weather disappointments and challenges. “Oh, my parents want me to cater to them sometimes? That means they value the gifts that I can give.”

And in that shift, something opens. We begin to feel good not just about receiving care—but about offering it. We discover the joy of reciprocity.

And suddenly, we’re no longer a disgrace just because we made a misstep. We’re no longer intent on avoiding shame, but on living with meaning and a worthy purpose. Even if we’re awkward, even if we’re just winging it—we’re growing. We won’t always hit the mark. But every time we show up, we build our commitment and sharpen our focus on the true essence of our lives.