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Aim High and Bounce Back: A Successful Woman's Guide to Rethinking and Rising Up from Failure
180 pages, Paperback
Published February 3, 2026
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February 26, 2026
A terrific resource for women on turning work failures into a spectacular successes. Highly recommended!
February 17, 2026
Failure Isn’t a Moment – It’s a Climate: Reading “Aim High and Bounce Back” in an Era of Layoffs, LinkedIn Highlight Reels, and 3 a.m. Spiral Thinking
By Demetris Papadimitropoulos | February 16th, 2026
Watercolor Piece by Demetris Papadimitropoulos
“Aim High and Bounce Back” is the kind of book that arrives with the quiet confidence of a well-lit conference room and the bruised realism of an inbox at 3 a.m. It knows, without melodrama, that “failure” is not a single dramatic event but a climate – a pressure system that settles over ambitious lives and makes even ordinary mistakes feel like verdicts. In a decade when careers are restructured by forces that don’t ask permission – reorganizations, algorithmic performance management, vanishing ladders, public pile-ons, and the ongoing aftershocks of a pandemic that rewired how we work and how we’re watched – Deborah Grayson Riegel and Fiona M. Macaulay write as if they’ve been sitting with clients in the moment when the stomach drops and the story begins: I’m not good enough.
Their central move is both humane and political: they refuse to treat women’s relationship to failure as a confidence defect. Early on, they reframe the familiar “confidence gap” as something closer to a consequence gap – the measurable reality that women are more likely to be penalized for the same errors, to be scrutinized for the same self-advocacy, to be promoted into higher-risk roles when institutions are already in crisis. In other words, the problem is not that women lack nerve; it’s that the world has trained them to calculate the cost of nerve with unusual precision. The book’s best pages live in that tension: honoring the interior experience of shame and fear while insisting that those emotions are not proof of personal inadequacy but data about the conditions around us.
Riegel, an executive coach with an academic footprint, and Macaulay, an entrepreneur who has built a global women’s leadership network, write with the practiced cadence of facilitators who have heard every version of the same confession. When they tell stories, they tell them like case studies designed to be borrowed: a reader should be able to look up from the page and say, All right – what do I do on Monday?
The architecture of the book is, essentially, a guided conversion. First: a diagnosis of why failure hits women where it hurts. Then: a tour of “failure literacies” – entrepreneurial experimentation, the messy middle of change, the strategic construction of support – that turn setback into something closer to competitive intelligence. Finally: a three-part framework the authors call the Three Gs: Ground, Gather, Go! The headings sound simple enough to fit on a sticky note. The effect, in practice, is more like a map for getting your nervous system back online.
“Ground,” the first phase, is a small rebellion against the cult of immediate redemption. The authors open this section with Elizabeth Gilbert, immobilized after the runaway success of “Eat, Pray, Love,” feeling like she had already failed at the next book before writing it. The lesson is not “push through” but pause: no sudden movements. Failure, they argue, hijacks the threat circuitry of the brain; the first task is not strategy but steadiness – breath, senses, body, the plain work of returning to the room you are in. They offer familiar grounding tools (a five-senses inventory, body scans) with a tone that suggests: Yes, it’s basic. Yes, it works. They are also careful to distinguish guilt from shame, one of the book’s most quietly life-saving distinctions. Guilt can correct behavior; shame corrodes identity. The authors’ insistence on that separation – failing does not make you a failure – is the kind of sentence that seems obvious until you notice how rarely it is believed.
From there, they move into a surprisingly rich meditation on grief. Failure is framed not only as disappointment but as values injury. You are not just mourning an outcome; you are mourning what the outcome threatened: competence, belonging, security, respect, integrity, the right to be taken seriously. This is where the book becomes something more than a leadership manual. Its moral imagination widens. It acknowledges that many professional setbacks don’t merely interrupt a plan; they destabilize the self you were trying to become.
“Gather,” the second phase, is where the coaching background shows itself most clearly. If “Ground” is about making space for emotion, “Gather” is about recruiting resources – internal and external – for the climb out of the valley. Here the authors take on regret with a pragmatist’s tenderness. They borrow from Daniel Pink’s “The Power of Regret,” arguing that “could have, should have” thinking becomes useful when it pokes rather than smothers – when it points toward the next experiment instead of anchoring you to the past. They offer a taxonomy of regret (concrete, circumstantial, perceived, identity, paralysis) and, for each, a set of questions that feel like gentle leverage: What was actually in my control? Who actually matters? What has remained true in me across time? The method is not catharsis; it is agency.
This is also where the book’s entrepreneurial strand gains force. Macaulay and Riegel are at their most persuasive when they argue that the most durable antidote to fear is experimentation. Failure hurts most when it feels final. If you can turn it into iteration, the sting becomes information. Melanie Perkins, rejected by investors over and over before building what would become Canva, treats “no” as a signal that her story isn’t landing – not that her worth is. Julie Wainwright, publicly scarred by the collapse of Pets.com, builds “The RealReal” with a quieter, less performative set of habits: start small, learn the economics, do the unglamorous work yourself. Even when the stories are familiar, the emphasis is not on inspiration but on method: customer discovery, build–measure–learn, cheap tests of expensive assumptions. In a business culture intoxicated by vision, the book’s admiration is reserved for discipline.
A reader might notice, too, how these entrepreneurial lessons rhyme with the realities of contemporary work. In an era of volatile industries and increasingly porous careers, “pivot” has become a cliché. Here it becomes a practice: don’t bet your life on a single untested hypothesis. Treat a career change the way you would treat a startup: shadow someone, freelance, take a small project, gather real data before you burn the boats. It’s “The Lean Startup” translated into human scale, with the authors’ consistent reminder that risk tolerance is not a personality trait but a muscle – strengthened through small, regular reps.
The book’s most electric chapter, though, is “When the Fear of Failure Peaks – Navigating the Danger Zone of Doubt.” It begins with Vera Wang, passed over for a role at “Vogue,” leaving for Ralph Lauren, then making the now-mythic leap into bridal design at forty because the bigger fear was not trying. But the authors are less interested in the cinematic beginning than in the middle that follows – the part no one wants to post. They draw on Rosabeth Moss Kanter’s famous observation that everything looks like failure in the middle, and they describe the “danger zone” with an almost diagnostic precision: the email dread, the 3 a.m. looping, the LinkedIn scrolling that turns into self-harm by comparison, the critic’s voice that gains a microphone the moment uncertainty arrives.
What makes this chapter land is its realism about converging fears. The authors name how visibility, judgment, identity, and opportunity can stack into a spiral that looks like overwork, perfectionism, and then paralysis. They offer warning signs – catastrophizing, impossible standards, analysis paralysis – and a tool kit designed for crisis, not for the calm Sunday after the crisis has passed: ask “so what?” until the imagined disaster becomes a manageable sequence; write a failure plan so the unknown loses its teeth; consult “future you” for proportion. The pivot here is small and radical: from “I am failing” to “not yet.” It’s a nod to Carol Dweck’s work in “Mindset,” but translated into the adult terrain where consequences are real and the stakes include money and reputation.
If “Danger Zone” is about surviving the middle, the subsequent chapter, on support systems, is about refusing to survive alone. The authors begin with Reshma Saujani’s congressional run and the “courage network” she built before she ever stepped onto the field. The argument is practical, not sentimental: bravery is not a solo act. Networks do not materialize when you need them; they are built in advance, deliberately, with roles assigned. The book’s “personal board of directors” – strategic supporters, professional advocates, personal champions – is one of its most exportable ideas. So is its frank acknowledgment of the network gap: women are often less embedded in the informal circuits where information and opportunity travel. In a moment when many workers feel atomized by remote and hybrid arrangements, and when institutional loyalty has thinned on both sides, the emphasis on relationship architecture feels less like self-help and more like infrastructure.
It is also here that the book makes one of its most quietly radical suggestions: asking for help is not weakness but a strategic move. This sounds like the sort of thing that gets embroidered on throw pillows, but Macaulay and Riegel avoid that trap by getting specific. The question is not “help,” in the abstract. The question is what kind of help: empathize, brainstorm, problem-solve, introduce, set deadlines, remind me of what’s true. The specificity is the point. It is the difference between a request that burdens the listener and one that makes it easy for another person to show up.
All of this sets the stage for “Go!” – the book’s final phase, and the one most likely to be misread as a simple call to hustle. It is not that. “Go!” is framed as a re-entry into ambition that may involve returning to the original goal, but may also involve redesigning the goal, the timeline, the partners, the variables. The authors borrow a scientist’s posture: isolate the levers and tinker. They offer an upgraded goal-setting acronym (SMARTER) that tries to restore resonance and integrity to the exhausted managerial language of productivity. And they insist on celebration – not as indulgence, but as neurochemistry, as motivation, as a way to teach the brain to associate effort with reward rather than dread.
The book’s closing story, Surya Bonaly’s backflip – illegal, audacious, landed on one blade – is a perfect emblem of the authors’ dream for their reader: a woman refusing to be measured only by the rules that were never written with her in mind. It’s also a reminder that “bouncing back” does not always mean winning the original game. Sometimes it means claiming the freedom to play a different one.
If this all sounds relentlessly constructive, it is because the book is, by design, a toolkit. Its genre commitments are not accidental. “Aim High and Bounce Back” wants to be used. It wants to be underlined, folded, copied into notes. In that sense, it has more in common with the best of Brené Brown’s “Dare to Lead” era – and with Amy Edmondson’s clear-eyed work on psychological safety and intelligent failure – than with the flimsier “girlboss” optimism it critiques. It also shares DNA with “Option B,” in its insistence that recovery is both internal and communal, and with “Maybe You Should Talk to Someone,” in its patient attention to the stories we tell ourselves when we’re hurt.
Still, the book is not without its compromises. At times, its sheer competence can flatten the very wildness of failure it is trying to honor. The workshop voice – the smooth transitions, the brisk action steps, the reassuring clarity – occasionally moves faster than grief does. The reader is sometimes guided away from the darkness with an efficiency that feels, ironically, like a form of perfectionism: feel the feeling, name the value, gather the resource, go again. For some readers, that will be a relief. For others, it may feel like a gentle pressure to become resilient on schedule.
There is also the question of audience. The book is explicitly written for women, and its systemic analysis is one of its strengths. But the solutions sometimes sit in a delicate place between personal agency and institutional responsibility. Psychological safety is invoked – rightly, and repeatedly – as a performance multiplier, with familiar reference points like Google’s team research. Yet the book cannot quite resolve the uncomfortable truth that many organizations benefit from employees who internalize failure quietly and “bounce back” without making trouble. The authors gesture toward changing systems, and they offer smart strategies for collective support (amplification, posse approaches, mentors and sponsors), but the book’s primary mode remains individual navigation. That is not a flaw so much as a limit of what one book can do. Still, it is worth naming: resilience is a virtue, but it can also be a coping strategy in environments that deserve reform.
And yet, when the book is in your hands at the exact moment you need it – after the job loss, the botched launch, the public misstep, the private unraveling – its virtues become hard to argue with. It understands the specific texture of contemporary defeat: the Slack message that precedes the “quick chat,” the calendar invite with no agenda, the layoffs explained as “strategic realignment,” and the quiet dread that automation will reprice your labor. It also understands the newer theater of failure, where a screenshot can travel faster than context and reputations can be rewritten in public. It does not scold you for being scared. It does not flatter you with empty confidence. It does not pretend failure is fun. It treats failure as a real event with a real emotional cost, and then it offers a sequence of moves that help you metabolize that cost into wisdom, connection, and forward motion.
The authors’ reading list, implicit and explicit, is a kind of map of recent self-improvement literature: the willpower tradition of “Grit,” the reframing stoicism of “The Obstacle Is the Way,” the vulnerability ethic of “The Gifts of Imperfection,” and the gendered confidence debate of “The Confidence Code.” What “Aim High and Bounce Back” adds is a composite – psychological insight, system critique, and a coach’s insistence on next steps – braided into a book that assumes its reader is both tired and capable.
In a culture that oscillates between triumphal hustle and performative vulnerability, Macaulay and Riegel are proposing something quieter and sturdier: failure as a normal feature of learning, not a moral indictment; ambition as a practice, not a personality; support as strategy, not charity. If “Aim High and Bounce Back” sometimes sounds like the most compassionate facilitator in the room, that is because it is trying to be exactly that – a steady voice in the messy middle, reminding you that the story is not over, and that the person you are becoming is larger than the worst thing that happened on a Tuesday.
Rating: 87/100.
By Demetris Papadimitropoulos | February 16th, 2026
Watercolor Piece by Demetris Papadimitropoulos
“Aim High and Bounce Back” is the kind of book that arrives with the quiet confidence of a well-lit conference room and the bruised realism of an inbox at 3 a.m. It knows, without melodrama, that “failure” is not a single dramatic event but a climate – a pressure system that settles over ambitious lives and makes even ordinary mistakes feel like verdicts. In a decade when careers are restructured by forces that don’t ask permission – reorganizations, algorithmic performance management, vanishing ladders, public pile-ons, and the ongoing aftershocks of a pandemic that rewired how we work and how we’re watched – Deborah Grayson Riegel and Fiona M. Macaulay write as if they’ve been sitting with clients in the moment when the stomach drops and the story begins: I’m not good enough.
Their central move is both humane and political: they refuse to treat women’s relationship to failure as a confidence defect. Early on, they reframe the familiar “confidence gap” as something closer to a consequence gap – the measurable reality that women are more likely to be penalized for the same errors, to be scrutinized for the same self-advocacy, to be promoted into higher-risk roles when institutions are already in crisis. In other words, the problem is not that women lack nerve; it’s that the world has trained them to calculate the cost of nerve with unusual precision. The book’s best pages live in that tension: honoring the interior experience of shame and fear while insisting that those emotions are not proof of personal inadequacy but data about the conditions around us.
Riegel, an executive coach with an academic footprint, and Macaulay, an entrepreneur who has built a global women’s leadership network, write with the practiced cadence of facilitators who have heard every version of the same confession. When they tell stories, they tell them like case studies designed to be borrowed: a reader should be able to look up from the page and say, All right – what do I do on Monday?
The architecture of the book is, essentially, a guided conversion. First: a diagnosis of why failure hits women where it hurts. Then: a tour of “failure literacies” – entrepreneurial experimentation, the messy middle of change, the strategic construction of support – that turn setback into something closer to competitive intelligence. Finally: a three-part framework the authors call the Three Gs: Ground, Gather, Go! The headings sound simple enough to fit on a sticky note. The effect, in practice, is more like a map for getting your nervous system back online.
“Ground,” the first phase, is a small rebellion against the cult of immediate redemption. The authors open this section with Elizabeth Gilbert, immobilized after the runaway success of “Eat, Pray, Love,” feeling like she had already failed at the next book before writing it. The lesson is not “push through” but pause: no sudden movements. Failure, they argue, hijacks the threat circuitry of the brain; the first task is not strategy but steadiness – breath, senses, body, the plain work of returning to the room you are in. They offer familiar grounding tools (a five-senses inventory, body scans) with a tone that suggests: Yes, it’s basic. Yes, it works. They are also careful to distinguish guilt from shame, one of the book’s most quietly life-saving distinctions. Guilt can correct behavior; shame corrodes identity. The authors’ insistence on that separation – failing does not make you a failure – is the kind of sentence that seems obvious until you notice how rarely it is believed.
From there, they move into a surprisingly rich meditation on grief. Failure is framed not only as disappointment but as values injury. You are not just mourning an outcome; you are mourning what the outcome threatened: competence, belonging, security, respect, integrity, the right to be taken seriously. This is where the book becomes something more than a leadership manual. Its moral imagination widens. It acknowledges that many professional setbacks don’t merely interrupt a plan; they destabilize the self you were trying to become.
“Gather,” the second phase, is where the coaching background shows itself most clearly. If “Ground” is about making space for emotion, “Gather” is about recruiting resources – internal and external – for the climb out of the valley. Here the authors take on regret with a pragmatist’s tenderness. They borrow from Daniel Pink’s “The Power of Regret,” arguing that “could have, should have” thinking becomes useful when it pokes rather than smothers – when it points toward the next experiment instead of anchoring you to the past. They offer a taxonomy of regret (concrete, circumstantial, perceived, identity, paralysis) and, for each, a set of questions that feel like gentle leverage: What was actually in my control? Who actually matters? What has remained true in me across time? The method is not catharsis; it is agency.
This is also where the book’s entrepreneurial strand gains force. Macaulay and Riegel are at their most persuasive when they argue that the most durable antidote to fear is experimentation. Failure hurts most when it feels final. If you can turn it into iteration, the sting becomes information. Melanie Perkins, rejected by investors over and over before building what would become Canva, treats “no” as a signal that her story isn’t landing – not that her worth is. Julie Wainwright, publicly scarred by the collapse of Pets.com, builds “The RealReal” with a quieter, less performative set of habits: start small, learn the economics, do the unglamorous work yourself. Even when the stories are familiar, the emphasis is not on inspiration but on method: customer discovery, build–measure–learn, cheap tests of expensive assumptions. In a business culture intoxicated by vision, the book’s admiration is reserved for discipline.
A reader might notice, too, how these entrepreneurial lessons rhyme with the realities of contemporary work. In an era of volatile industries and increasingly porous careers, “pivot” has become a cliché. Here it becomes a practice: don’t bet your life on a single untested hypothesis. Treat a career change the way you would treat a startup: shadow someone, freelance, take a small project, gather real data before you burn the boats. It’s “The Lean Startup” translated into human scale, with the authors’ consistent reminder that risk tolerance is not a personality trait but a muscle – strengthened through small, regular reps.
The book’s most electric chapter, though, is “When the Fear of Failure Peaks – Navigating the Danger Zone of Doubt.” It begins with Vera Wang, passed over for a role at “Vogue,” leaving for Ralph Lauren, then making the now-mythic leap into bridal design at forty because the bigger fear was not trying. But the authors are less interested in the cinematic beginning than in the middle that follows – the part no one wants to post. They draw on Rosabeth Moss Kanter’s famous observation that everything looks like failure in the middle, and they describe the “danger zone” with an almost diagnostic precision: the email dread, the 3 a.m. looping, the LinkedIn scrolling that turns into self-harm by comparison, the critic’s voice that gains a microphone the moment uncertainty arrives.
What makes this chapter land is its realism about converging fears. The authors name how visibility, judgment, identity, and opportunity can stack into a spiral that looks like overwork, perfectionism, and then paralysis. They offer warning signs – catastrophizing, impossible standards, analysis paralysis – and a tool kit designed for crisis, not for the calm Sunday after the crisis has passed: ask “so what?” until the imagined disaster becomes a manageable sequence; write a failure plan so the unknown loses its teeth; consult “future you” for proportion. The pivot here is small and radical: from “I am failing” to “not yet.” It’s a nod to Carol Dweck’s work in “Mindset,” but translated into the adult terrain where consequences are real and the stakes include money and reputation.
If “Danger Zone” is about surviving the middle, the subsequent chapter, on support systems, is about refusing to survive alone. The authors begin with Reshma Saujani’s congressional run and the “courage network” she built before she ever stepped onto the field. The argument is practical, not sentimental: bravery is not a solo act. Networks do not materialize when you need them; they are built in advance, deliberately, with roles assigned. The book’s “personal board of directors” – strategic supporters, professional advocates, personal champions – is one of its most exportable ideas. So is its frank acknowledgment of the network gap: women are often less embedded in the informal circuits where information and opportunity travel. In a moment when many workers feel atomized by remote and hybrid arrangements, and when institutional loyalty has thinned on both sides, the emphasis on relationship architecture feels less like self-help and more like infrastructure.
It is also here that the book makes one of its most quietly radical suggestions: asking for help is not weakness but a strategic move. This sounds like the sort of thing that gets embroidered on throw pillows, but Macaulay and Riegel avoid that trap by getting specific. The question is not “help,” in the abstract. The question is what kind of help: empathize, brainstorm, problem-solve, introduce, set deadlines, remind me of what’s true. The specificity is the point. It is the difference between a request that burdens the listener and one that makes it easy for another person to show up.
All of this sets the stage for “Go!” – the book’s final phase, and the one most likely to be misread as a simple call to hustle. It is not that. “Go!” is framed as a re-entry into ambition that may involve returning to the original goal, but may also involve redesigning the goal, the timeline, the partners, the variables. The authors borrow a scientist’s posture: isolate the levers and tinker. They offer an upgraded goal-setting acronym (SMARTER) that tries to restore resonance and integrity to the exhausted managerial language of productivity. And they insist on celebration – not as indulgence, but as neurochemistry, as motivation, as a way to teach the brain to associate effort with reward rather than dread.
The book’s closing story, Surya Bonaly’s backflip – illegal, audacious, landed on one blade – is a perfect emblem of the authors’ dream for their reader: a woman refusing to be measured only by the rules that were never written with her in mind. It’s also a reminder that “bouncing back” does not always mean winning the original game. Sometimes it means claiming the freedom to play a different one.
If this all sounds relentlessly constructive, it is because the book is, by design, a toolkit. Its genre commitments are not accidental. “Aim High and Bounce Back” wants to be used. It wants to be underlined, folded, copied into notes. In that sense, it has more in common with the best of Brené Brown’s “Dare to Lead” era – and with Amy Edmondson’s clear-eyed work on psychological safety and intelligent failure – than with the flimsier “girlboss” optimism it critiques. It also shares DNA with “Option B,” in its insistence that recovery is both internal and communal, and with “Maybe You Should Talk to Someone,” in its patient attention to the stories we tell ourselves when we’re hurt.
Still, the book is not without its compromises. At times, its sheer competence can flatten the very wildness of failure it is trying to honor. The workshop voice – the smooth transitions, the brisk action steps, the reassuring clarity – occasionally moves faster than grief does. The reader is sometimes guided away from the darkness with an efficiency that feels, ironically, like a form of perfectionism: feel the feeling, name the value, gather the resource, go again. For some readers, that will be a relief. For others, it may feel like a gentle pressure to become resilient on schedule.
There is also the question of audience. The book is explicitly written for women, and its systemic analysis is one of its strengths. But the solutions sometimes sit in a delicate place between personal agency and institutional responsibility. Psychological safety is invoked – rightly, and repeatedly – as a performance multiplier, with familiar reference points like Google’s team research. Yet the book cannot quite resolve the uncomfortable truth that many organizations benefit from employees who internalize failure quietly and “bounce back” without making trouble. The authors gesture toward changing systems, and they offer smart strategies for collective support (amplification, posse approaches, mentors and sponsors), but the book’s primary mode remains individual navigation. That is not a flaw so much as a limit of what one book can do. Still, it is worth naming: resilience is a virtue, but it can also be a coping strategy in environments that deserve reform.
And yet, when the book is in your hands at the exact moment you need it – after the job loss, the botched launch, the public misstep, the private unraveling – its virtues become hard to argue with. It understands the specific texture of contemporary defeat: the Slack message that precedes the “quick chat,” the calendar invite with no agenda, the layoffs explained as “strategic realignment,” and the quiet dread that automation will reprice your labor. It also understands the newer theater of failure, where a screenshot can travel faster than context and reputations can be rewritten in public. It does not scold you for being scared. It does not flatter you with empty confidence. It does not pretend failure is fun. It treats failure as a real event with a real emotional cost, and then it offers a sequence of moves that help you metabolize that cost into wisdom, connection, and forward motion.
The authors’ reading list, implicit and explicit, is a kind of map of recent self-improvement literature: the willpower tradition of “Grit,” the reframing stoicism of “The Obstacle Is the Way,” the vulnerability ethic of “The Gifts of Imperfection,” and the gendered confidence debate of “The Confidence Code.” What “Aim High and Bounce Back” adds is a composite – psychological insight, system critique, and a coach’s insistence on next steps – braided into a book that assumes its reader is both tired and capable.
In a culture that oscillates between triumphal hustle and performative vulnerability, Macaulay and Riegel are proposing something quieter and sturdier: failure as a normal feature of learning, not a moral indictment; ambition as a practice, not a personality; support as strategy, not charity. If “Aim High and Bounce Back” sometimes sounds like the most compassionate facilitator in the room, that is because it is trying to be exactly that – a steady voice in the messy middle, reminding you that the story is not over, and that the person you are becoming is larger than the worst thing that happened on a Tuesday.
Rating: 87/100.
February 24, 2026
After my first (and not last) read, I’m left reflecting on how many women internalize failure and can overcome this experience with mind shifts and realignment. This book is like a chiropractic procedure for the professional/personal soul.
This book reinforces the methods I used to escape a failing work environment. Looking back, I wish that “Aim High Bounce Back” would have been part of my life during that difficult time and allowed me to take risks earlier.
Fiona’s and Deb’s suggestions to collate a support system of people who help you through difficult times is something I learned in my 50s but wished I knew in my 30s. It’s not too late or too early to grasp the concepts included in their book.
Friends and colleagues, this is a book that you will want to place on your office or home shelf to review the checklists, tool kids, chapter summaries and methods which you will utilize when you need them most.
Professionals, creatives, homemakers, thinkers and those who fit in other categories will all benefit from reading and using this book to endure and overcome failure.
This book reinforces the methods I used to escape a failing work environment. Looking back, I wish that “Aim High Bounce Back” would have been part of my life during that difficult time and allowed me to take risks earlier.
Fiona’s and Deb’s suggestions to collate a support system of people who help you through difficult times is something I learned in my 50s but wished I knew in my 30s. It’s not too late or too early to grasp the concepts included in their book.
Friends and colleagues, this is a book that you will want to place on your office or home shelf to review the checklists, tool kids, chapter summaries and methods which you will utilize when you need them most.
Professionals, creatives, homemakers, thinkers and those who fit in other categories will all benefit from reading and using this book to endure and overcome failure.
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews