Latest / She Survived: Stories of Courage, Recovery & Reinvention / The Quiet Courage of Changing Your Mind Publicly | She Survived
Transcript
- There is a specific kind of vertigo that hits when you realize the map you’ve been following for years was drawn in invisible ink. It’s not just about being wrong; it’s about the terrifying, beautiful freedom of finally putting down the heavy stone you’ve been carrying because you were too proud to admit you picked it up. I want you to take a deep breath with me right now. In through the nose, hold it for a second, and let it out slowly. Good. Breathe into it. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how much energy we waste trying to look consistent. We live in a world that rewards certainty, that loves a straight line. If you said X last year, you better say X today, or people start to wonder if you’re reliable, if you’re solid, if you’re even trustworthy. But here is the quiet truth I’ve learned after decades of watching women navigate life’s wreckage: consistency without growth is just stagnation wearing a nice suit. We are taught from a young age that changing your mind is a sign of weakness. It’s framed as flip-flopping, as indecision, as a lack of backbone. So we clench our jaws. We double down on opinions we no longer believe in simply because we stated them publicly ten minutes ago, or ten months ago, or ten years ago. We become prisoners of our own past statements. And I see how exhausting that is. I feel it in my own bones sometimes, that urge to protect the ego by refusing to evolve. But staying wrong feels so much heavier than admitting you were mistaken. The weight of being right when you know you’re wrong? It breaks your back. The weight of saying, 'Actually, I was mistaken'? That’s light. That’s air. That’s freedom. Let’s talk about the ego for a moment, shall we? Because the ego is a loud, frantic thing. It doesn’t care about your happiness; it cares about your image. It wants to be seen as smart, as correct, as unwavering. When you change your mind publicly, especially when you were previously wrong, the ego throws a tantrum. It screams that you’re losing face. It whispers that everyone is judging you, that they think less of you now that you’ve pivoted. But I’m here to tell you that this is a lie. A beautiful, protective lie. I remember a time in my early forties when I was fiercely defensive about a career path I had chosen. I had written articles, given talks, poured my heart into this idea that success looked one specific way. Then, life happened. A loss. A shift. My values changed. My definition of success shifted from external validation to internal peace. But for two whole years, I kept saying the same things. I kept using the same language. Why? Because I was afraid that if I admitted I was wrong, I’d have to admit that all that effort had been misdirected. I was afraid of looking foolish. And I did look foolish. Not because I changed my mind, but because I refused to. I was arguing for a version of myself that no longer existed. I was defending a ghost. The turning point was tiny. It wasn’t a grand announcement. It was just a coffee with a friend where I said, 'You know, I don’t think I believe that anymore.' And the sky didn’t fall. The ground didn’t open up. She just nodded and said, 'Thank goodness. I was wondering when you’d figure that out.' When you change your mind publicly, you give others permission to do the same. This is the radical empathy at play here. Think about the last time someone you respected admitted they were wrong. How did it make you feel? Did you respect them less? Or did you feel a sudden release in your own chest, a sense that it was safe to be human around them? We are so isolated in our need to be perfect. We scroll through social media and see highlight reels of certainty, of people who never doubt, never pivot, never apologize. It creates a culture of shame around correction. But when you speak your evolution aloud, you create a sanctuary for others. You signal that this space is for growth, not for performance. You show that it’s okay to be broken here, that it’s okay to be in process. I often tell my listeners that community over isolation is the antidote to shame. And there is nothing more isolating than holding onto a belief that no longer fits your soul. By speaking your change, you invite connection. You say, 'I am learning. I am growing. Please walk with me.' That is an act of profound trust. It says, 'I value the truth more than my pride.' And that is a rare and precious thing in a world obsessed with winning arguments rather than finding understanding. So, how do we actually do this? How do we practice the bravery of changing our minds without feeling like we’re collapsing under the weight of our own imperfections? It starts with curiosity. Instead of defending your position, get curious about why you might be missing something. Ask yourself: What new information have I received? How has my experience changed since I formed this opinion? It also requires us to separate our identity from our ideas. You are not your opinion. You are not your job title. You are not the stance you took three years ago. You are a living, breathing, evolving person. When you can detach your self-worth from being 'right,' admitting you were wrong becomes an act of self-care, not self-destruction. It becomes a way of honoring your current reality. I find it helpful to use language that invites dialogue rather than declares war. Instead of 'I was completely wrong,' try 'My perspective has evolved.' Instead of 'I gave up,' try 'I’m exploring a different path.' These small shifts in phrasing reduce the stigma. They allow for nuance. They acknowledge that we are all works in progress. And let’s be honest, isn’t it nicer to be with someone who admits they don’t have all the answers than someone who insists they do? I certainly am. I’d rather have a conversation than a lecture. Think of your beliefs and opinions as a garden. Some plants thrive. Some wilt. Some grow wild and untamed. You cannot force a rose to be a cactus. You cannot force a belief to stay alive when its roots have dried up. Tending to your garden means pulling the weeds. It means pruning the dead branches. It looks messy in the moment. Dirt gets everywhere. Leaves scatter. But it is necessary for new growth. Changing your mind is part of that tending. It’s the seasonal shift. Winter comes, and the leaves fall. It feels like loss. It feels like emptiness. But beneath the surface, the roots are resting, preparing for spring. If you tried to keep the leaves on the tree during winter, you would destroy the tree. You would choke it. So let go. Let the old opinions fall away. Make space for what is coming next. This is hard work. It requires humility. It requires the courage to stand in the vulnerability of not knowing. But it is also incredibly liberating. When you stop fighting the current of your own growth, you can finally swim. You can move with grace instead of against resistance. You can trust yourself again. Not the rigid, armored version of yourself, but the fluid, adaptable, resilient one. The one who knows that being wrong is just another step toward being right—for today, for this season, for this chapter. So here is my invitation to you, dear listener. Is there a belief you’re holding onto that feels heavy? Is there an opinion you’ve defended simply because you stated it first? Take a moment to check in with your heart. Does it still fit? Does it still resonate? Or is it just an echo of who you used to be? If it’s time to let go, I encourage you to do it gently. You don’t need to announce it to the world unless you feel called to. But honor the shift within yourself. Acknowledge the growth. Celebrate the fact that you are still learning, still listening, still becoming. That is the bravest thing you can do. To remain open. To remain soft. To remain willing to change. Remember, it’s okay to be broken here. It’s okay to be imperfect. And it’s more than okay to change your mind. In fact, it’s essential. Your truth is not a statue; it’s a river. Let it flow. Let it reshape the landscape. Let it carry you toward the sea. The turning point was always going to be tiny, but it leads to a vast ocean. Trust the water. Trust yourself. And breathe into it. Take good care of yourselves. Keep tending your gardens. I’ll be with you soon. Until then, breathe easy.