We tend to treat mistakes as things to avoid at all costs.

We rehearse, polish and double-check because we want to get things right. And while there’s care in that, there’s also a quiet cost: the more we grip ourselves, the less space there is for surprise, play, and connection.

When we try this hard it’s like we want to be superhuman, or more-than-human. When the most human thing is to be caught in the messy middle, to make mistakes. To err is human.

Improv offers a different invitation.

In improv, mistakes aren’t just tolerated—they’re welcomed. And sometimes, the mistakes are the best bits.

They remind us that we’re human. They unearth something honest in us. Often, it’s the unexpected things we say and do that make it funny, and at the same time pull back the curtain and reveal the person behind the character.

But this goes deeper than an individual actor messing up a line and styling it out (which is pretty much the minimum spec for improvising). What’s more powerful and moving, is when we own our mistakes and each others.

In improv, when one person stumbles, it’s not theirs alone to carry. All the players are responsible for what happens in the show, so we honour those moments, weave them into the story and try to make each other look good (as if it happened on purpose). When we do this our ‘mistakes’ become a creative commons, and the seeds of all sorts of pattern games, character reveals, and plot twists.

I remember seeing Showstopper! The Improvised Musical where a local lover boy character was proud of his Jaguar car. In the next scene, the car was referred to as an Aston Martin. The audience spotted the clash (they always do) so the character proudly declared his car a “Jagston-Martin.” It pulled a big laugh—and his Jagston-Martin became a recurring feature for the rest of the show.

This is where improv becomes very human. Instead of judging or eliminating so-called mistakes, we honour them by folding in the unexpected, the absurd, the inexplicable. We say yes to each other and our imperfections and we carry on.

Softness Over Shame

When we follow our cultural conditioning of trying to avoid mistakes for fear of shame and judgement we become more rigid and tense. We become less forgiving, less creaturely, less human.

But when we create space to be messy, flawed, weird, kind, and uncertain – all the things we truly are – where judgement is very low or non-existent the effect is transformative. We unlock a kind of strength that’s different from the brittle striving of perfectionism. We get a kind of vulnerability that’s responsive and feels true.

In beginners classes and corporate workshops I often say “You can’t get it wrong.” I mean it – there is no yardstick by which to measure right. Sure there are more and less productive choices, but no choice is categorically wrong. I feel this applies to life as a whole, there is Rumi’s field out there beyond right and wrong, but it seems so hard for us to find it.

Owning Our Mistakes

We often talk about “owning your mistake” as an individual act. And there are times when we need to take responsibility, apologise, and learn.

But something magical happens when you own a mistake and your team jumps in with you. You create a world where nothing is broken or wrong, and you discover endless chances to support each other. And best of all these fuel creative discoveries that would have otherwise stayed hidden.

The number one directive in improv isn’t “be funny” or “get it right.” The prime directive is: support each other.

Or as Liz Peters puts it “Ensemble, ensemble, ensemble, ensemble, ensemble.”

When we own mistakes collectively, we can stay connected. We can stay human.

I know I’m in a great show when it feels like you can do anything and there are no mistakes. Nothing is ignored or disowned, no one is abandoned or shamed – everything gets used and honoured. The team supports every move you make. It feels incredible – like floating on air.

I don’t know if this approach works in the rest of life – but it’s a gift to have improv in your life. It’s a kind of sandpit, where the usual rules are suspended and you’re free to just play with no mistakes.

Photo by Santa Barbara on Unsplash