by someone who has definitely been wrong today

In 1979, the psychologist Philip Tetlock began a curious experiment. He wanted to understand whether political experts, those who filled newspapers and airwaves with confident predictions, were any good at their jobs. Over the next two decades, he compiled tens of thousands of predictions from hundreds of these experts. The result? Their accuracy was barely better than chance. The kicker: the more famous the expert, the more likely they were to be wrong.

Now, why does that matter?

Because when we’re wrong, we don’t like to admit it. In fact, we have built a fortress of ego around being right. Being right makes us feel secure. It makes us feel smart. It validates our identity. But being wrong? That feels like exile from the tribe.

And yet, here’s the paradox: we learn when we are wrong.

Let’s start with a simple question: Have you ever been wrong?
 
 Of course you have. We all have. I have. (More than I’d like to admit, and certainly more than I remember.) But now ask yourself: When was the last time you admitted it? Not in the privacy of your thoughts at 2 a.m., but out loud, to another person, in real time?

There’s a strange social resistance to being wrong. It’s as if saying “you’re right” to someone else is an act of surrender. Like losing a game. Like pulling teeth from a camel, a metaphor that makes no anatomical sense, but somehow feels emotionally accurate.

We live in a world where knowledge is cheap, but ego is expensive. You attend a webinar, read a book, hear a podcast, and rather than absorb new information, you filter it through last year’s mindset. You close yourself off. You miss the twist. You miss the shift.

Why?

Because learning requires vulnerability. It demands that you accept you don’t already have all the answers. The School of Hard Knocks isn’t called that because it offers gentle nudges. It’s called that because sometimes the truth slaps you across the face.

So here’s an experiment: what if, for one month, you tracked every time you were wrong? Not just wrong on trivia night or in front of your boss. But wrong in assumptions, in tone, in timing, in judgment. How did you react? Did you defend yourself? Did you rationalize it? Or did you pause—observe—absorb—adjust?

That act of noticing your wrongness, of sitting with it, might be the most powerful kind of intelligence we have. Not IQ. Not the ability to score high on tests. But the ability to evolve.

This is the path of humility, and like any path, it’s riddled with detours. We talk about “getting off on the wrong foot” or “taking a wrong turn”—but that implies there’s a right direction to return to. And that’s the hope.

Because being wrong is not a failure of character. It’s a feature of being human. And recognizing that is what keeps us out of jail, or at least out of the prisons we build for ourselves in the name of pride.

So, the next time someone tells you, “I think you’re wrong,” don’t fight them. Don’t defend. Don’t retreat into certainty like it’s a bunker. Take a breath. Ask: “What am I missing?” Maybe they’re right. Maybe you’re not. Maybe you both are and aren’t at the same time.

Because if we were all perfect, if we never made a mistake, never wandered off the path, never said, “Oh no,” or “Oops,” or “Wow, I didn’t see it that way,” well, what a boring world this would be.

Being wrong is not the end of the road.
 
 It’s the map that shows you where to go next.