What if you’re the problem?
I have a confession. I have spent a considerable portion of my life being right. Even when I wasn't.
It's a remarkable talent, really. And one that took me far too long to recognize wasn't quite the leadership strength I thought it was.
For years, I carried biases that narrowed my vision. I had opinions informed by experience, convictions reinforced by success, and enough confidence to make a compelling argument for almost anything I believed. I wasn't deliberately trying to be difficult. I genuinely believed I understood what was happening around me.
And sometimes, I was just plain wrong.
The uncomfortable part wasn't discovering that I could be wrong. We all know that intellectually. The uncomfortable part was recognizing how much energy I had invested in being right, how readily I could defend my position, and how little room that sometimes left for another perspective.
I had spent years learning about leadership, communication, conflict and change. I could recognize resistance in others, identify dysfunctional patterns and explain why people struggled to see beyond their assumptions.
Apparently, I was also quite capable of demonstrating those very behaviours myself.
Funny how that works.
When Confidence Becomes a Blind Spot
Experience is a wonderful teacher, but it can also make us remarkably confident in conclusions we haven't examined recently.
We develop ways of interpreting the world. We notice patterns, draw on previous experiences and make judgments about what is happening and why. Much of the time, this serves us well. Without those mental shortcuts, we'd struggle to make even ordinary decisions.
But those same shortcuts can become barriers to understanding.
We begin to see what we expect to see. We interpret someone's behaviour through the lens of what we already believe about them. We listen for confirmation rather than information. And when someone challenges our interpretation, we may become more interested in defending our position than understanding theirs.
I know I've done this.
I've walked into conversations convinced I understood the problem before everyone had finished explaining it. I've mistaken my intentions for my impact. I've believed that because I cared deeply about an outcome, my approach must surely be the right one.
And I've occasionally been so committed to making my point that I missed the point someone else was trying to make.
Here's something I've learned:
Certainty can feel like clarity when it's actually a blind spot.
The challenge is that blind spots rarely announce themselves. They feel like knowledge, experience, intuition or good judgment. Sometimes they even come dressed as principles.
What If the Problem Isn't Them?
One of the most convenient things about being human is our ability to identify what other people need to change.
The colleague who won't listen. The leader who doesn't understand. The partner who always reacts the same way. The team member who can't seem to see the bigger picture.
We can become remarkably skilled at diagnosing everyone else's contribution to a difficult situation while remaining surprisingly incurious about our own.
I certainly could.
And here's where my own development became uncomfortable. I began recognizing that some of the problems I was experiencing weren't simply happening around me. I was contributing to them.
My assumptions influenced my reactions. My reactions influenced other people's responses. My certainty sometimes closed conversations that curiosity might have opened.
I wasn't necessarily responsible for everything that happened. Other people still had agency, choices and accountability of their own.
But I was responsible for me.
And until I became willing to examine my own contribution, I couldn't make meaningful progress.
That's a difficult admission for someone who has spent much of her life helping other people navigate change.
Expertise doesn't exempt us from being the problem. Sometimes it just makes us better at explaining why we're not.
Ouch.
Being Wrong Isn't the Same as Being Worthless
There's a reason this kind of self-examination can be so difficult.
When we've built an identity around being knowledgeable, capable or dependable, admitting we're wrong can feel like surrendering something much bigger than an opinion.
It can feel like surrendering credibility, authority or even belonging.
So we defend. We rationalize. We explain our intentions. We gather evidence that supports our interpretation and quietly discount evidence that doesn't.
Not necessarily because we're arrogant or malicious, but because being wrong has become threatening.
And this is where my understanding of human worth changed how I approached personal development.
I could be wrong without being worthless.
I could recognize bias without concluding I was a terrible person. I could acknowledge that my behaviour had negatively affected someone without making my entire identity the subject of the conversation.
In fact, separating my worth from my performance made it easier to take responsibility for my performance.
I no longer needed every difficult conversation to end with evidence that I was right.
Sometimes, I needed to learn something.
The Practice of Being Wrong
I wish I could tell you that once I recognized these patterns, they disappeared.
They didn't.
I still carry biases. I still make assumptions. I still have moments when my first instinct is to defend rather than understand. And I still occasionally discover that my certainty has travelled considerably farther than the evidence supporting it.
The difference is that I'm becoming more willing to notice.
I'm learning to ask myself what I might be missing. Whether I've confused my interpretation with a fact. Whether I'm responding to what someone actually said or to the story I've constructed about what they meant.
And perhaps most importantly, whether I'm genuinely interested in understanding another perspective or simply waiting for an opportunity to explain why mine is correct.
None of this requires abandoning conviction. We can have strong opinions, make difficult decisions and stand firmly behind our values while remaining open to the possibility that our understanding is incomplete.
Being feisty doesn't require being right.
Sometimes it requires having the courage to discover that we're not.
An Uncomfortable Invitation
This week, I want to offer you a challenge.
Think about a situation in your life where you've been frustrated by someone else's behaviour. Perhaps it's a colleague, a family member, a leader or someone whose decisions seem completely unreasonable to you.
Now, instead of asking what they need to change, ask yourself three questions.
What am I assuming that I haven't actually verified?
How might my behaviour be contributing to the dynamic I'm experiencing?
And what would I have to reconsider if I discovered that my interpretation was wrong?
You may find that your original assessment was entirely reasonable. Sometimes other people really are behaving badly, and recognizing our own contribution doesn't mean accepting responsibility for theirs.
But you might also discover something that changes the conversation.
I know I have.
And I continue to.
Because the most important thing I've learned about being wrong is that it doesn't have to be the end of my credibility.
Sometimes, it's the beginning of my growth.
What if the thing standing between you and your next stage of growth isn't what you don't know, but what you're absolutely certain you do?
Forward, with purpose.
— Amber
Your performance can be evaluated. Your worth cannot.
If this reflection stayed with you, explore The Feisty Human: Recipes for Becoming Someone You Don’t Have to Negotiate.
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