I once thought that failing to accomplish one’s goal, regardless of how long and/or passionately the individual in question had attempted to reach it, constituted utter failure.

Boy, was I wrong.

On the first weekend of July 1987, I left for two years of service in Central America in the Peace Corps. Full of idealism, ambition and energy, 40 other aspiring volunteers and I departed for Guatemala determined to help make a difference.

Upon our arrival, everyone was pre-tested to determine their fluency in Spanish; trainees were rated on a scale of zero (utterly illiterate) to five (totally fluent). I graded out at a zero-plus, which meant that I could state my name, count to 10, and grin helplessly when asked to do anything else. My high school Spanish teachers had been right; I really should have paid attention in their classes, most of which I had sat through inertly a decade and a half earlier.

But I wasn’t going there to make speeches; I had been placed in the “Youth Development” group, which meant that my part in ending poverty, alcoholism, disease and similar sufferings would involve teaching basketball skills to small children. Never mind that I couldn’t verbally communicate with any of the locals; I was confident my work ethic, winning personality and athletic ability would more than compensate for my complete lack of familiarity with Guatemalan customs, culture, language and food. I was a vegetarian who consistently ran several sub-six-minute miles every day, and who ”“ up until that time ”“ had never missed a day of work due to illness. I expected to come home in October 1989 healthy, accomplished and infinitely more worldly.

But my triumphant return to the United States as a bilingual impact-maker didn’t take place two years after I departed for Central America. I hadn’t even progressed from trainee to volunteer before the Peace Corps doctors strongly recommended I take my skeletal self home while I still could. Less than 11 weeks after departing the United States, brimming with excitement and anticipation, I returned feeling forlorn and utterly defeated. My goal had been to spend 27 months in Guatemala, but I hadn’t even lasted three. Not only hadn’t I accomplished even one thing I had set out to, I had lost 30 pounds I didn’t need to, I had a colon full of holes, and I was coming home jobless. In my mind, I had completely and utterly failed.

But it turned out my limited time in Guatemala was exceptionally well spent. I learned just how lucky I was to have been born and raised in the good old U.S. of A. Prior to my all-too-brief Central American experience, I had thought my siblings and I had been brought up in modest circumstances, but after a bit of time away, I realized that compared to most of the rest of the world we had been raised in splendor. Even more importantly, I met some remarkable people whose paths I’d undoubtedly never have crossed had I not left my comfort zone.

The 18 women and 22 men who were my fellow trainees ranged in age from 22 to 60. They hailed from urban, suburban and rural locales in 17 different states, plus Puerto Rico. I learned something of value from nearly all of them, even though I didn’t fully realize it at the time. Each of those people was special; some were extra special. My wife and I named our daughter after one of them. Another, who like me was born and raised outside of Maine, today lives no more than an hour north of where I do, which has allowed us to remain in touch. I wish I could let the other 38 know not only how grateful I was for their friendship in 1987, but how appreciative of it I still am 25 years later.

When it became evident I was going to have to leave Guatemala prematurely because of health issues, not one of my American colleagues would allow me to consider myself unsuccessful. Their unwavering support allowed me to see that truly giving one’s all to something can’t ever be classified as a failure, even if things don’t necessarily work out as originally planned.

Avoiding the disappointment of not succeeding is easy; anyone can attain that “goal” by simply steering clear of all risks and never trying to accomplish anything out of the ordinary.

I returned from Guatemala without having reached even one of my original objectives. But with the support of some truly special friends and the passage of time, I’ve ultimately come to understand that my summer “failure” of a quarter-century ago wasn’t a fiasco to be ashamed of ”“ it was a unique life experience that’s still worth celebrating 25 years later.

— The only border Andy Young crosses these days is the one between York County (where he works) and Cumberland County (where he lives).