Master's Union Next-Gen Summer Skills Competition: 1st Place
Master's Union Winter Entrepreneurship Bootcamp: Winner (Back-to-Back)
Model United Nations: 3x Outstanding Delegate, Best Journalist Award

On paper, these look impressive. When people hear about them, they say: "Wow, you must be really good at this."

Here's what those bullet points don't show: the projects that failed completely, the pitches that fell flat, the conferences where I embarrassed myself, and the weeks of work that led nowhere. This isn't a post about winning. It's about everything that happened before, after, and between the wins—the parts that actually taught me something.

The Pitch That Won (After Three That Didn't)

BioPod—our AI-powered indoor farming solution—won at Master's Union's Winter Bootcamp. The judges loved it. The presentation was smooth. We answered questions confidently. What nobody saw: the three ideas we pitched before BioPod that went absolutely nowhere.

Idea 1: A marketplace for local artisans. Judges' feedback: "Too broad, not scalable, saturated market."

Idea 2: A platform connecting students with mentors. Feedback: "Unclear revenue model, how is this different from LinkedIn?"

Idea 3: An app for managing household chores. Feedback: "Solving a problem nobody is paying to solve."

Each rejection stung. After the third one, I genuinely questioned whether I was capable of thinking through business ideas properly. My teammates were frustrated too. We'd spent hours on each pitch, only to be told it wasn't good enough.

BioPod was our fourth attempt. And honestly? It wasn't necessarily a better idea than the others. It was a better pitch. We'd learned from three failures what judges were actually looking for: clear problem statement, defensible solution, realistic business model, demonstration of market understanding. The win didn't come from being brilliant. It came from failing three times and paying attention to why.

The MUN Conference Where I Froze

People see "3x Outstanding Delegate" and assume I'm naturally good at public speaking and debate. Let me tell you about the MUN conference in 10th grade where I completely froze.

I was representing a country in the United Nations Security Council. Big committee, experienced delegates, intense debate about international intervention. I'd prepared for weeks—research notes, position papers, opening speech memorized. My turn to speak came. I stood up, walked to the podium, looked at 60 people staring at me.

My mind went blank. Not "I forgot a few lines" blank. Completely, utterly blank. I couldn't remember my country's position. Couldn't remember my opening line. Stood there in silence for what felt like an eternity (probably 15 seconds) before mumbling something incoherent and sitting down.

I wanted to disappear. The rest of that conference, I barely spoke. I was too embarrassed. Convinced everyone thought I was incompetent. After it ended, one of the senior delegates—someone who'd won multiple awards—pulled me aside. "First time freezing up?" I nodded.

"Happened to me too. Still happens sometimes. The difference is, next time you'll know that feeling, and you'll push through it anyway." He was right. The next MUN, I felt that panic rising when I stood to speak. But I knew what it was. I pushed through. My speech wasn't amazing, but I finished it.

That's what those Outstanding Delegate awards don't show: the conferences where I was terrible, the moments I wanted to quit, the slow process of getting comfortable being uncomfortable.

The ApniDukaan Detail They Don't Ask About

"Won 1st place for ApniDukaan e-commerce project." True. But here's what I don't usually mention: I won not because ApniDukaan made the most money (it didn't), had the best design (it didn't), or was the most innovative (definitely wasn't).

I won because during the presentation, I was honest about what went wrong. While other students showed polished success metrics, I showed my failed marketing campaigns. My supplier issues. My customer complaints. My wrong assumptions about pricing. One judge asked: "If you could start over, what would you do differently?" I had a whole list ready. Because I'd messed up enough times to know exactly what I'd change. Another student—who'd made more revenue than me—got asked the same question. They confidently said they wouldn't change anything. The judges looked skeptical. After the results were announced, that same judge told me: "We're not looking for perfection. We're looking for learning. You clearly learned from your mistakes."

That's when I realized: the value wasn't in winning. It was in being honest about the messy process that got me there.

What the Awards Don't Teach You

• They don't teach you resilience.  Failing does. Losing a competition, then deciding to try again—that builds resilience. The trophy at the end is just a nice bonus.
• They don't teach you critical thinking. Getting harsh feedback that forces you to completely rethink your approach—that teaches critical thinking. The award just confirms you eventually figured it out.
• They don't teach you collaboration. Working with teammates when your idea gets rejected and everyone's frustrated—that teaches collaboration. Winning together is just the celebration of figuring out how to work through hard moments.
• They don't validate your worth. This is the big one. I thought winning would make me feel competent, validated, like I'd proven something. It feels good for maybe a week. Then you're back to working on the next thing, feeling uncertain again.

Your worth isn't in the wins. It's in showing up, trying things, learning from what doesn't work.

The Losses That Mattered More

The business pitch that bombed: We pitched Lego Homes at one bootcamp before winning with it at another. The first time? We got destroyed in Q&A. Judges pointed out flaws we hadn't considered. We felt defensive and defeated.

But we listened. Rewrote everything. Addressed their concerns. The second pitch—the winning one—was built on the foundation of that first failure.

The MUN conference with no awards: I worked harder preparing for that conference than any other. I was so sure I'd win something. I didn't even get a special mention.

Sitting in the closing ceremony watching others get recognized hurt. But it made me analyze: what did they do that I didn't? How were their arguments structured? How did they build alliances?

Those observations made me better at the next conference. That award wouldn't have happened without this loss.

The essay competitions I entered and heard nothing back from: Not even feedback. Just silence. Those taught me that sometimes your work just isn't chosen, and you have to be okay with that. Not everything you create will be recognized, and that's fine. You keep creating anyway.

What I'm Trying to Remember

When I look at my "achievements," I'm trying to remember: These represent maybe 10% success, 90% stumbling around figuring things out. The wins came after multiple losses. They're the visible part of a much messier process. The recognition is temporary. The learning from failures lasts longer. I'm not "good at this." I've just failed at it enough times to occasionally get it right.

The competitions I didn't win taught me more than the ones I did.

To Anyone Who Keeps Losing

If you're entering competitions, pitching ideas, trying things and not winning—this is normal. This is most of the experience for most people. The winners you see? They're not winning everything. You're just not seeing all their losses. I have a folder on my laptop called "Failed Projects." It has way more files than my "Successful Projects" folder. That ratio is normal.

Keep trying. Not because you'll definitely win eventually (maybe you will, maybe you won't), but because the trying itself teaches you things you can't learn any other way. And if you do win something? Enjoy it. Take the photo. Update your resume. Feel proud for a moment. Then remember: this doesn't define you. The willingness to try again after failing—that defines you more than any trophy ever will.