We all make mistakes, and we do so with regularity. Some errors are small, such as, “No, we don’t need to stop at the store; there’s plenty of milk left for breakfast.” Some are bigger, such as, “Don’t rush me; we have plenty of time to get to the airport before the flight leaves.” And some are crucial, such as, “I know it was raining and dark, but I’m sure that was the man I saw breaking into the home across the street.”
No one enjoys being wrong. It’s an unpleasant emotional experience for all of us. The question is how do we respond when it turns out we were wrong—when there wasn’t enough milk left for coffee, when we hit traffic and missed the flight, or when we find out the man who sat in jail for five years based on our identification was innocent all along?
Some of us admit we were wrong and say, “Oops, you were right. We should have gotten more milk.”
Some of us kind of imply we were wrong, but we don’t do so explicitly or in a way that is satisfying to the other person: “We had plenty of time to get to the airport on time if the traffic hadn’t been unusually bad. But fine, we’ll leave earlier next time.”
But some people refuse to admit they’re wrong, even in the face of overwhelming evidence: “They let him go because of DNA evidence and another dude’s confession? Ridiculous! That’s the guy! I saw him!”
The first two examples are probably familiar to most of us because those are typical responses to being wrong. We accept responsibility fully or partially (sometimes, very, very partially), but we don’t push back against the actual facts. We don’t claim there was enough milk when there wasn’t, or that we were not late to the airport.
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