Reflection Six in a Seven-Part Series on Encountering Transcendence in the Present Moment
It is a hard thing, is it not, when we come to the realization that we were wrong—that we made a miscalculation, that the choice we made has not led us to the dream destination, but oft to the edge of ruin! A bit dramatic, I know, but I oft feel this way, even if the matter at hand is not nearly so catastrophic.
Being wrong, and the guests that attend it—shame, defensiveness, embarrassment, and their unkempt cousin, awkward silence—are not the most welcome visitors in the house of human experience. We live in a culture that teaches us, subtly and sometimes not-so-subtly, that we must never be wrong. Or at least, never admit it.
And I? Well, I am a fully signed-up, card-carrying product of that culture.
But what a gift we miss when we clutch so tightly to the fear of being wrong. What if, by admitting—mostly to ourselves, but sometimes to others—that we were indeed off the mark, we could open a door not to disgrace, but to grace? What if being wrong could be, dare I say, holy?
Now, I am not speaking here of errors in trivial matters—mixing up one’s socks, or misidentifying a seabird, though I confess to both last week alone. No, I speak of the deeper wrongs. The misjudged motives. The narratives we carry about others that turn out to be more fiction than fact. The positions we defend long past their expiry date. The dreams we chase only to discover they were never really ours to begin with.
A few days ago, I had one of those moments—minor in detail, but major in meaning. I had confidently shared a story with a fellow traveler, full of certainty about its historical veracity and moral clarity, only to later discover (thanks to a quietly offered correction and a quick fact-check with a park ranger) that I had not only misremembered the event, but misunderstood its essence entirely.
Cue the slow, sinking feeling. You know the one. That quiet, creeping blush of the cheeks. The mental shuffle backward through what you said, to whom, and how enthusiastically.
But then, something curious happened. I found myself laughing. Not the defensive, cover-it-up sort of laugh, but a genuine chuckle at my own misplaced confidence. And in that moment, a bit of lightness entered the space where pride had sat just moments before.
You see, there is something disarming about being wrong—if we allow it. It softens us. It reminds us that we are not infallible machines but wondrously fallible human beings. It breaks the illusion of control and perfection — two of my greatest afflictions — and it opens us up to one another.
In fact, I wonder if being wrong is one of the more effective spiritual disciplines. It trains us in humility, yes—but also in openness, in curiosity, and in compassion. For once we’ve stumbled ourselves, we tend to be more gentle with the stumbling of others.
And if God, as I believe, delights not in our certainty but in our sincerity, then being wrong might not be the failure we fear—but the threshold we need.
Tomorrow, we come to our final reflection: “Coming Home to the Present.” A fitting place to land after all this wandering.
But for now, may you make peace with your missteps. May you see them not as detours, but as holy signposts. And may the next time you find yourself wrong—and you will—you receive it not as shame, but as invitation.
It’s fascinating how being wrong can lead to such profound self-reflection. I’ve had moments like this too, where my confidence crumbled under the weight of my own mistakes, but it’s refreshing to see it framed as a spiritual discipline. Do you think we’re too hard on ourselves when we’re wrong, or is that self-criticism necessary for growth? I love how you turned the experience into a moment of laughter and lightness—it’s a reminder that not every misstep has to be a catastrophe. But I wonder, how do you balance humility with the need to maintain confidence in your beliefs? And do you think society’s fear of being wrong stifles our ability to grow? I’d love to hear more about how you navigate this in your own life.
What a thoughtful and tender response—thank you for engaging with the reflection so deeply. It’s heartening (and somewhat relieving!) to know I’m not alone in having had my confidence collapse under the gravity of my own flawed brilliance. There’s something very human about it, isn’t there? A sort of shared hilarity and heartbreak that reminds us of our fragile, beautiful fallibility.
You ask if we’re too hard on ourselves when we’re wrong—or if that self-criticism is necessary for growth. I suspect the answer, as with most things worth pondering, lies somewhere in the middle. A bit of self-critique is like salt in soup—essential in the right amount, but ruinous in excess. The danger lies in mistaking being wrong for being unworthy. When we do that, we don’t just learn a hard lesson—we wound our own capacity to trust ourselves again.
That’s where laughter helps. It softens the edge. It restores perspective. I often find that if I can laugh at myself kindly it creates just enough space for humility and grace to coexist.
And that leads to your question about balancing humility with confidence in one’s beliefs. That’s a marvellous tension.
I think the key is holding our convictions with open hands rather than clenched fists. Confidence doesn’t have to be loud or immovable. It can be a quiet assurance, one that says, “This is what I believe to be true today, but I’m open to being surprised.” That’s not weakness—that’s wisdom wrapped in wonder. That didn’t come easy, but my years of travail in graduate school helped somewhat!
As for society’s fear of being wrong—yes, I do believe it stifles growth. We’ve created a culture where certainty is rewarded and doubt is dismissed. But without doubt, how can we inquire? Without the possibility of error, how can there be learning? Growth requires a kind of holy curiosity—a willingness to be wrong for the sake of becoming more whole.
In my own life, I try (imperfectly, of course) to treat being wrong not as failure, but as a threshold. Not a place to pitch a tent and wallow, but a passageway to deeper knowing. I often ask myself: What does this mistake want to teach me? And also: Can I be kind to myself while I’m learning it?
So, I try to be bold enough to get it wrong now and then—and gentle enough to smile as I often do.
With gratitude for your beautiful reflection,
—A Fellow Stumbler on the Way