Losing the battle, but winning the war

In the spring of 2026, after spending months apart as a cohort of 65 Master of Marketing students, we reunited for the final business challenge of our program. Unlike previous courses, we got to choose our own groups for this challenge.

I chose my trusted five: Daniel, Taha, Nino, Shreya and Nil. All heavy hitters whom I'd trust with anything.

They're the teammates I most enjoy collaborating with. We had worked together before and created a stellar social media analytics presentation for AT&T, with Daniel leading us as group leader.

This time, I wanted to step into a larger leadership role, so I shyly asked my team if I could take that on, and they all responded with resounding enthusiasm. From there, the dream team began.

Except this time, it didn't begin so smoothly.

In the early days, it took us time to find our rhythm. There were clashing design opinions, differing views on how the financials should be accounted for, and disagreement over what value proposition we were even building as a team. It became an opportunity for me to act on the kind of leader I wanted to be, and I made the decision to course-correct some of the friction we were facing as a group, despite feeling nervous about the "confrontation" with my friends.

Out of 12 teams, only 4 would advance to present a curated proposal to the company we were partnering with for the challenge. But nobody would know who those 4 would be until presentation day itself. The competition felt fierce. Teams began guarding their work and feedback from one another. Everyone wanted to present. Everyone wanted to win.

We knew how badly we wanted it the night we stayed awake until 4 a.m. in Nil's apartment, sleep-deprived, malnourished, frustrated, and utterly exhausted. When the day came to present, we knew we were ready. We had rehearsed our pitch until we could recite it from memory, never breaking eye contact to glance back at the screen, and our speaker transitions were seamless.

When the moment finally arrived, my team, running on little food and even less sleep, was called up second to present. Buoyed by adrenaline, we delivered what felt like a flawless pitch. We watched the other three teams present, and while each had its own strengths, we were, admittedly, a little biased in believing we had the strongest business model and the most rigorous financial planning of the group.

The judges retreated to deliberate. What was supposed to be a 20-minute discussion stretched into a tense hour and a half before they returned to announce the winner.

We felt good. Confident. Strong. And yet all of us still bowed our heads and silently hoped for the win. One of the judges began praising our team, remarking on how well-constructed and impressive our work was, and that they intended to keep tabs on us going forward. As the praise continued, I looked at my team and simply knew: we were going to lose.

As badly as we all wanted it, there was also enormous relief, first, that this grueling challenge was finally over, and second, that we knew, without question, the work we'd created was excellent, thorough, inventive, and flawlessly executed.

Even in defeat, all we felt was pride. Pride in the work we presented, and pride in the team we built it with.

When you pour your heart into your work alongside people you care about and respect deeply, the outcome of the competition becomes secondary. We knew our work was strong, and we knew our bond as a team was stronger still.

Below are candid photos one of our classmates captured just after we lost. We're huddled together, reveling in something like joy, because even though we may have lost the challenge, what we gained and won together was far greater than anything that trophy could have offered.