Latest / Starting Over: Stories of Reinvention, Hope & Second Chances / The Courage to Say 'I Was Wrong' Out Loud | Starting Over
Transcript
- There is a specific, hollow sound that echoes in your chest when you realize the story you’ve been telling yourself for months is actually a lie. It’s not just embarrassment; it’s the terrifying freedom of realizing you can finally let go of being right. Let’s get real for a second. We are taught from the time we are children that being wrong is a failure. If you raise your hand and give the wrong answer, you feel the heat rising up your neck. You want to shrink into your desk. You want the ground to swallow you whole. So, as adults, we build entire identities around being correct. We curate our opinions like museum exhibits. We hold onto our stances with white-knuckled grip because if we let go, we’re afraid we’ll have nothing left to stand on. But here is the secret no one tells you: holding on to being right is exhausting. It is a heavy, cold stone you carry in your pocket every single day. And sometimes, that stone is crushing the very life you’re trying to live. I see this all the time in my own life, and I see it in yours. You know the feeling. You’re in an argument with a partner, or maybe a colleague, and you’re so busy defending your position that you stop hearing their voice. You’re not listening to understand; you’re listening to find the flaw in their logic so you can strike back. You’re protecting your ego, not the relationship. And by the end of the conversation, you might have won the point, but you’ve lost the connection. That is the cost of being right. It’s a high price. And most of us don’t even realize we’re paying it until we look up and realize we’re alone. But today, I want to talk about something much braver than just admitting you were wrong in private. I want to talk about the bravery of changing your mind publicly. When you change your mind behind closed doors, it’s a personal growth moment. It’s quiet. It’s safe. But when you stand in front of others—on social media, in a meeting, at a dinner table—and say, 'I was wrong,' you are doing something radical. You are dismantling your own pedestal. In a world that rewards certainty and punishes doubt, choosing to be visibly flexible is almost an act of rebellion. Think about the last time someone changed their mind openly. How did it make you feel? Did you feel attacked? Or did you feel relief? For me, it’s always relief. Because if they can admit they were wrong, then I don’t have to be perfect either. Public vulnerability creates space for everyone else to breathe. It signals that this space is safe for nuance. It says, 'We are humans figuring things out, not statues proving our worth.' But to do it takes guts. Real guts. Because you have to be willing to be seen as uncertain. You have to be willing to look foolish in the short term to gain wisdom in the long run. It’s scary to watch people’s faces when you pivot. They might think you’re weak. They might think you’re fickle. But what they’re really seeing is strength. The strength to prioritize truth over comfort. The strength to value growth over image. I remember a moment early in my career where I held onto a professional opinion fiercely. I had written an article about leadership styles, and I was convinced that my way—the direct, aggressive, 'sink or swim' approach—was the only effective way. I defended it in meetings. I doubled down when colleagues pushed back. I felt proud of my conviction. Then, a mentor pulled me aside after a project failed. She didn’t yell. She didn’t call me names. She just asked, 'Do you want to be right, or do you want to lead?' That question hit me like a physical blow. I realized I wasn’t leading anyone; I was just performing. I was using my authority to protect my ego. So, I did the hardest thing I’ve ever done in a company-wide email. I wrote, 'I was wrong. My previous advice was flawed, and I’m sorry for the stress it caused. Here is what I’ve learned instead.' I expected backlash. I expected people to think I was incompetent. Instead, the responses poured in. Women told me they felt seen for the first time. Men told me they’d been struggling with the same pressure and felt relieved to hear it from the top. By admitting I was wrong, I didn’t lose respect; I gained trust. I became human. And strangely, that made me a better leader. It showed that I was listening. It showed that I valued the team more than my own pride. That email changed the culture of my office. It turned a hierarchy of egos into a community of learners. And it started with one sentence: 'I was wrong.' Now, I know what you’re thinking. 'But Sacha, what if I look like a flip-flopper? What if people think I have no core values?' This is the biggest fear, isn’t it? We confuse being wrong with being inconsistent. But they are not the same thing. Consistency is about staying true to your values, not staying true to your past mistakes. If your values include curiosity, humility, and growth, then changing your mind is actually the most consistent thing you can do. It aligns with who you are becoming, not who you used to be. Changing your mind doesn’t mean you have no spine. It means your spine is flexible. A rigid stick breaks in the wind; a willow bends and survives. Think about science. Scientists change their minds all the time. New data comes in, old theories are discarded. That’s not weakness; that’s integrity. It’s honesty with reality. Yet, in our personal lives, we treat our opinions like sacred texts. We refuse to update them. We’d rather die on the hill of a bad idea than climb down and walk a better path. Why? Because climbing down feels like defeat. But it’s not. It’s evolution. It’s the process of outgrowing your old self. And yes, it looks messy. Yes, it looks awkward. You might stumble over your words. You might feel the heat of judgment. But stay in it. Let the discomfort sit there. It’s the feeling of your ego dying so your character can be born. So, here is my challenge to you. This week, find one place where you can practice public flexibility. Maybe it’s in a comment section online. Maybe it’s in a text thread with friends. Maybe it’s in a work Slack channel. Pick a topic where you’ve held a strong opinion, but you’re open to new information. Share that openness. Say, 'I used to think X, but after reading Y, I’m seeing it differently.' Watch what happens. I bet you’ll find that people don’t mock you. They thank you. They’ll share their own shifts. You’ll create a ripple effect of permission. Permission to be imperfect. Permission to learn. Permission to be human. This is how we build community. Not by building walls around our correctness, but by opening doors to our curiosity. When you allow yourself to be wrong, you give everyone else permission to be right—or at least, to be honest. You lower the stakes of existence. You turn conversations from battles into collaborations. And isn’t that what we all want? To be understood? To be met with grace? When you drop the shield of righteousness, you invite others to drop theirs too. You create a space where truth can flourish, unburdened by pride. It’s risky. It’s vulnerable. But it’s also the most powerful way to connect with the world. It’s the bravest thing you can do. Because it says, 'I care more about the truth than I care about looking smart. I care more about us than I care about winning.' And that is a message the world desperately needs to hear. Welcome back to the beautiful chaos, because that’s what this is. Life is not a straight line of correct decisions. It’s a tangled web of guesses, corrections, apologies, and new beginnings. Embrace the mess. Embrace the 'I was wrong.' It’s not a stain on your record; it’s a badge of honor. It shows you’re alive. It shows you’re paying attention. It shows you’re growing. Don’t let the fear of looking foolish keep you stuck in a box of your own making. Step out. Speak up. Change your mind. Let it be known. Let it be loud. Let it be free. You might surprise yourself. You might surprise everyone. And in that surprise, you’ll find the joy of starting over, again and again, with fresh eyes and an open heart. That’s the pivot point. That’s where the magic happens. Not in the perfection, but in the repair. Not in the silence, but in the speech. So go ahead. Be brave. Be wrong. Be free. Thank you for letting me into your day. Be gentle with yourselves. You’re doing better than you think. Until next time, keep breaking things and fixing them beautifully. I’ll see you soon.