Latest / Starting Over: Stories of Reinvention, Hope & Second Chances / The Bravery of Owning Your Mistakes: How to Forgive Yourself | Starting Over
Transcript
- There is a specific, hollow silence that happens in the three seconds after you realize you’ve forgotten something critical, and it feels less like a mistake and more like a character flaw. I want to tell you about the Tuesday I lost my job because of a single email, and how admitting it changed everything. Let’s get real for a second. We are taught from the time we are children that mistakes are bad. If you spill milk, you’re clumsy. If you forget your friend’s birthday, you’re thoughtless. If you miss a deadline at work, you’re unreliable. We internalize these small failures as evidence that we are fundamentally broken, or at least, not good enough. But here is the truth that takes me years to remind myself of every single day: forgetting something important is not a moral failing. It is a human moment. And yet, when we mess up, our first instinct is not to fix it. Our first instinct is to hide. We build walls of excuses, we deflect blame, we pretend we didn’t see the notification, or worse, we spiral into shame until we believe the story that we are just inherently flawed. That spiral is where the real damage happens. The mistake itself is often minor, but the energy we spend trying to protect our ego is what exhausts us. I remember sitting in my car in a parking garage last year, shaking, after I realized I had sent a confidential document to the wrong person. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I wanted to drive away. I wanted to quit my life. I wanted to disappear. But staying in that shame only made the problem bigger. It turned a simple error into a catastrophe of my own making. We live in a culture that celebrates perfection, especially for women. We curate our lives on social media to look effortless, organized, and always right. We present ourselves as if we have never missed a turn, never said the wrong thing, never forgotten an anniversary. This performance is exhausting, and it is a lie. When we refuse to admit we forgot something, we are actually refusing to be seen. We are saying, 'I must be perfect to be loved.' But love does not require perfection. Connection requires honesty. Think about the people in your life whom you trust most. Are they the ones who never make mistakes? Or are they the ones who say, 'I messed up, I’m sorry, let me fix it'? Usually, it’s the latter. Vulnerability is not a weakness; it is the bridge that allows other people to breathe easier around you. When you own your mistake, you give everyone else permission to do the same. You create a space where humanity is allowed to exist. It’s liberating. It takes the pressure off. You stop carrying the heavy armor of pretending to be flawless, and you start moving with the lightness of being real. That’s the pivot point. The moment you drop the act is the moment you begin to heal. I want to share a story with you because I need you to know I am not standing up here preaching from a pedestal of purity. I am standing in the rubble of my own errors. A few years ago, I was working in corporate marketing. I was ambitious, tired, and trying to prove myself to people who didn’t really matter. One morning, I had promised a major client a presentation by nine AM. I stayed up late working on it, fueled by anxiety and cold coffee. In the rush to send it before I left the office, I attached the wrong file. It wasn’t the final deck. It was the draft with all my notes, my frustrated scribbles, and half-baked ideas. I hit send. Then I drove to the office, sat down, and opened the attachment to double-check. That was when I saw it. The horror was instant. I felt my face burn. I wanted to crawl under my desk and stay there forever. I considered blaming the IT department. I considered saying my computer glitched. I considered lying. But then I looked at my reflection in the dark monitor and I saw fear. Pure, unadulterated fear. Not fear of the client, but fear of being found out as a fraud. So, I did the hardest thing I have ever done. I picked up the phone. I called the client directly. I said, 'I am so sorry. I attached the wrong file. I was rushing and I made a mistake. Here is the correct file now, and I will stay late tonight to ensure this doesn’t happen again.' Silence on the other end. Then, a sigh. And then, a voice that said, 'Thank you for telling me. I appreciate the honesty. Let’s talk.' He didn’t fire me. He didn’t yell. He respected my integrity. That moment taught me more about leadership than any MBA course ever could. Owning a mistake is not just about saying 'I’m sorry.' It is a skill. It is a muscle that needs to be built. Most of us apologize with conditions. We say, 'I’m sorry you feel hurt,' or 'I’m sorry, but I was really stressed.' These are not apologies. These are defenses. They shift the focus back to you. A true apology has three parts. First, you acknowledge what happened without minimizing it. Second, you express genuine remorse. Third, you offer a solution or ask how you can make it right. It sounds simple, but in practice, it requires swallowing your pride. It requires sitting with the discomfort of knowing you disappointed someone. But here is the beautiful part: when you do this well, relationships deepen. Trust increases. People learn that you are safe. They learn that if things go wrong, you won’t run away. You will stand there and handle it. This applies to everything. Big things, like missing a huge deadline. And small things, like forgetting to call your mom back. The principle is the same. Acknowledge. Apologize. Act. Don’t over-explain. Don’t seek pity. Just own it. Cleanly. Clearly. With grace. Now, I want to talk about the hardest person you will ever forgive: yourself. We are often our own harshest critics. We replay the mistake over and over in our heads, critiquing every word, every action, every thought. We tell ourselves stories like, 'I should have known better,' or 'I’m so stupid.' This self-flagellation serves no purpose. It does not fix the past. It only steals your joy in the present. To truly own your mistake, you must also forgive yourself for making it. You were doing your best with the information you had, the energy you had, and the emotional capacity you had at that moment. You were human. Forgive the version of you who forgot. She was trying her best. She was tired. She was overwhelmed. She made a choice based on her state of mind. Now, you have the wisdom of hindsight. Use that wisdom to move forward, not to punish backward. Treat yourself with the same kindness you would offer a friend who came to you crying about a mistake she made. Would you berate her? Or would you hug her and help her find a solution? Be that friend to yourself. You deserve that compassion. Especially when you are learning. This is why I started this show. Because starting over is rarely about big, dramatic events. Often, it starts with a small admission. A confession. A deep breath. Admitting you forgot something is a tiny act of rebellion against the pressure to be perfect. It is a declaration that you value truth more than image. It is a step toward authenticity. And authenticity is where life begins. When you stop hiding your flaws, you start living your life. You become lighter. You become freer. You become available for connection. So, today, I invite you to look at your life. Is there something you’ve been avoiding admitting? A mistake you’ve buried under layers of excuse? A feeling of inadequacy you’ve masked with busyness? Bring it into the light. Say it out loud. Write it down. Send the email. Make the call. Tell your partner, 'I messed up.' Tell your boss, 'I forgot.' Tell your friend, 'I was wrong.' Watch what happens. The world will not end. In fact, it might just get better. Because you will be present. You will be real. And that is the most magnetic thing you can be. Welcome back to the beautiful chaos. It’s messy, yes. But it’s yours. And it’s enough. Be gentle with yourself today. You are doing better than you think. Until next time, keep showing up, even when it’s hard. I’ll be right here with you. Love you.