In life, some mistakes can feel more devastating than death itself.

A typical evening in February 2003 turned into an unforgettable experience at NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL) in Pasadena, California. Dressed in cleanroom attire, I entered High Bay 1 of Building 179, where many of NASA's iconic interplanetary missions were developed since the 1960s. With only two weeks left before the Spirit Mars Rover was scheduled to be shipped to Cape Canaveral, Florida, for its launch, the atmosphere was charged with anticipation.

After already working a lengthy 12-hour shift that day, I was deep into what felt like my unofficial second shift. Extended work hours are common during the assembly and testing phases of spacecraft development. Each system undergoes rigorous testing to ensure everything functions flawlessly before the final assembly. The Spirit and Opportunity rovers, part of a now-legendary dual mission, represented nearly a billion-dollar investment by NASA and were among the most sophisticated spacecraft of their time—talk about pressure!

The rovers were outfitted with 62 motors, managing tasks like driving, steering, operating the robotic arm, aiming cameras, and deploying various instruments. Extensive testing had simulated the extreme conditions they would face on Mars, especially concerning pyrotechnics, which could potentially harm delicate carbon components in the motors. While my colleagues conducted tests on the rover, I focused on ensuring the motors in the Rock Abrasion Tool (RAT) on Spirit’s robotic arm were functioning properly.

Disassembling and inspecting motor components after each environmental test is impractical. Instead, we assess their internal condition through electrical performance. Using a break-out box, we disconnect the motor from the spacecraft and connect it to an external power source and a strip chart recorder. A properly functioning motor displays a smooth, exponential decline in electrical current during spin-up, while any anomalies appear as irregularities in the signal.

Having performed this test numerous times, I felt well-equipped for the task. My various roles on the project had given me ample experience deciphering the complex diagrams detailing the 10,000 pin-to-pin connections necessary for the spacecraft's operation. Moreover, my responsibility for writing the procedures to connect and control the motors made me the go-to person for this test.

Inside the cleanroom, John, the electrical chief, assisted me in gathering the necessary equipment. Mary, our cabling specialist, carefully unplugged connectors and attached the test equipment as requested. We confirmed our pre-test checks: the connection interface was functional, the power supply settings were correct, and a quick test pulse to a reference motor validated our configuration. With everything set, we removed the reference motor and connected Spirit’s RAT-Revolve motor, which rotates the grinder for Mars rock samples. After one final confirmation of the testing steps, we were ready to send energy to the waiting motor.

To obtain the clearest signal and detect even minor imperfections, we follow a standard procedure of supplying the motor with maximum power. This makes it crucial to direct the electrical surge accurately; a misconnection could lead to catastrophic failures. Our pre-test routine was a vital precaution to ensure the configuration was correct.

Upon sending the pulse to the motor, the immediate results were shocking. The strip chart revealed an unfamiliar pattern, unlike anything we had encountered before. My mind raced for explanations, and within moments, I realized the grim truth. My error with the break-out box meant that instead of energizing the RAT-Revolve motor, the surge of electricity had inadvertently flooded the spacecraft.

Ooooohhhh ssshhhhiiiiitttt.

The potential ramifications hit me like a tidal wave—I had possibly just rendered a $500 million asset into scrap metal. With only two weeks until the spacecraft was set for launch, there was no margin for error. I realized that we might only send one rover to Mars this synodic cycle, and my actions held the fate of the mission in my hands.

Having learned from previous experiences that bad news only worsens with time, I quickly informed Leo, the test conductor managing other tests. His response was a knife twist to my gut: "Yeah, we just lost all spacecraft telemetry." Not a promising sign.

Everyone nearby was listening in on the communication loop, and off-mic, John unleashed a torrent of colorful language about my mistake. The team immediately initiated the spacecraft's emergency shutdown protocol, instructing us to leave the cleanroom for what would likely be a damage assessment meeting.

At just 28 and still fresh into my career as an interplanetary spacecraft engineer, this monumental step I had long dreamed of might be my last. As the reality of the situation settled in, Matt, the Assembly Test and Launch Operations manager, instructed me to document everything I remembered about the incident. I don’t recall when the tears began, but they likely started flowing as I sat alone in a conference room, writing down my recollections.

With my notes in hand, Leo and my colleagues dissected the events of the night. Two significant occurrences were evident: a large pulse of electricity had diverted from its intended path, and telemetry from the spacecraft had ceased. Fortunately, there appeared to be no direct correlation between these two issues. As the team deliberated, it seemed that the surge of electricity likely affected the H-Bridge motor driver circuit, a component designed to manage electrical flow. Although my mistake was serious, back-EMF—a phenomenon allowing motors to create energy during certain conditions—might have mitigated the situation.

We concluded that the errant pulse had disrupted the data flow without permanently damaging the system. With the spacecraft powered down, we opted to follow a common troubleshooting method: turn it back on to see if the power cycle resolved the issue.

By midnight, news of the incident had reached Pete, the Project Manager. The potential for project-wide replanning was significant. The team, now under intense scrutiny, regrouped and initiated the spacecraft power-up procedure. As the system powered on, the electronics began to activate, followed by software boot-up that would produce telemetry. A pulse generated every clock cycle transformed a red light on the ground support rack into a heartbeat indicator for the rover. The power supply progressed through its usual voltage and current steps, but after an extended wait, the heartbeat remained dark, and telemetry was absent.

I don't clearly remember what transpired next, but there were likely discussions about what steps to take moving forward. I do recall the emotional devastation that lingered as I recounted the incident to my wife, fully expecting to lose my job in the morning, and fearing my name would be forever linked to a chapter of infamy in space exploration history.

Back at JPL the next morning, amid a meeting with a new shift and some holdouts from the previous night, we once again meticulously retraced the events, searching for clues or recovery opportunities. It felt increasingly futile until one pivotal detail emerged.

The Fluke 87III digital multimeter is a standard tool in JPL's labs. When I entered the cleanroom the night before, I had asked John where to find one for my test. With all available units in use, he pointed to one monitoring bus voltage that wasn't involved in any testing. I carefully disconnected the leads and proceeded with my motor tests. Unbeknownst to me, the multimeter I had removed was crucial for the spacecraft's ground test telemetry. I had inadvertently disabled the connection the moment I unplugged it.

Recognizing the need to restore the multimeter to its original role, we quickly powered up the spacecraft again.

We did just that, and it worked. There was a collective gasp as telemetry flickered back to life—Spirit was not dead after all!

The team resumed testing, having lost only a few hours, and I exhaled a monumental sigh of relief, grateful that I had not doomed the mission to a single-rover fate.

The rest of that morning blurred into a whirlwind of analysis on the RAT-Revolve motor's H-bridge channel, leading to discussions about potential thin-film demetallization. Ultimately, the project team felt confident enough to proceed with the hardware: Use As Is.

The long days continued as I transitioned to Cape Canaveral for final preparations before launching the rovers to Mars. My time there was filled with exhilarating yet stressful moments. Spirit eventually landed on Mars, and after a year of built-up tension, the RAT-Revolve motor functioned perfectly, turning the entire ordeal into a profound life lesson.

# The Lesson

As I have shared this experience over time, it has deepened my understanding and encouraged others to recount their own encounters with failure. Sharing these stories transforms them into valuable lessons for both the narrators and their listeners. In my later role at my asteroid mining startup, Planetary Resources, we recognized the significance of these narratives in our hiring and team culture, actively inviting candidates to share their failure stories as a means of acknowledging growth and learning from the past. The core lesson I derived from my rover experience is best encapsulated in these words:

Let your scars serve you; they are invaluable learning experiences and investments in your resilience.

During the crisis, while tears streamed down my face and colleagues distanced themselves, one person approached me. Ernie, a wise and compassionate man who had come out of retirement to assist with the demanding shifts, placed his hand on my shoulder and reassured me gently. He imparted words I’ll never forget: "Remember this feeling the next time you have to sign off that something is okay."

Ultimately, I went on to become the Flight Director for Spirit and Opportunity as they explored the Martian surface, earning NASA’s Exceptional Achievement Medal for my contributions. So, I didn’t lose my job over this incident, but that reassurance didn’t come until days later during a pivotal meeting. In the tense aftermath of the mishap, with analysis still pending, passionate debates erupted about whether to continue the tests, with many advocating for a halt. The discussion concluded that ensuring our motors functioned flawlessly on Mars remained critical. I still vividly recall the shock when Project Manager Pete announced, "These tests will continue. And Chris will lead them as we have invested in his education. He’s the last person who would make this mistake again."

I returned to the "scene of the crime" for many more tests, this time with carefully revised procedures to prevent a repeat of my error. Each time I conducted this test again, I was reminded of Pete’s confidence and Ernie’s wise words, which evoked a moment of nausea but also a sense of readiness to move forward. The trust management had in me, despite my initial blunder, marked a pivotal moment in my career, showcasing personal growth and the ability to overcome challenges.

Now, whenever I’m called upon to endorse something significant, I’m transported back to that moment—the room, the lighting, the chair, the table, the pit in my stomach, and the intense mix of fear, anxiety, and regret for a mistake that nearly led to disaster. Ernie's wisdom and compassion during my vulnerable moment have left an indelible impression on me. When faced with critical decisions, I not only remember that experience but also strive to support others navigating their challenges. Like Pete did for me, I aim to help transform these moments into catalysts for growth and resilience, reinforcing the idea that our responses to adversity can shape our future paths.

These stories of near misses, learning experiences, and eventual successes are not solely mine but resonate with many involved in building and creating. In the realm of space exploration, failure is not merely an option—it’s a built-in aspect of the journey. Every misstep can serve as a stepping stone toward greater achievements, and collectively, our insights can pave the way for future innovations and breakthroughs in expanding our presence and benefits from space.

I welcome fellow space entrepreneurs, engineers, scientists, technicians, and others to share their own "Failure Stories." If you've turned a failure into a learning experience, please share your story on LinkedIn, the platform formerly known as Twitter/X, or BlueSky.

"It's in the valley of failure that we sow the seeds of success." — Jason Altucher

"No experience in itself determines our success or failure. We shape our experiences according to our purposes; we are not dictated by them but by the meanings we assign to them." — Ichiro Kishimi, The Courage to Be Disliked

"The very best news is bad news delivered early enough to fix it." — Lindy Elkins-Tanton, Principal Investigator of the Psyche mission

[1] Back-EMF (ElectroMotive Force): the energy a motor generates when it acts like a mini power generator, especially during deceleration or misalignment.

Thanks to Andrea Lewicki, Mike Lewicki, and Chris Hadfield for their feedback on drafts of this article.