Being Right Isn’t Enough

By Raymond Barranco, MSU Professor of Sociology

There are two things that most of us struggle to say (no, I’m not talking about “Irish wristwatch” and “rural juror”): “I’m sorry” and “You were right.”

Those words are difficult no matter the relationship – between spouses, parents and children, coworkers, friends, or teachers and students.

Why?

Because saying them requires us to admit something we would rather not: that we made a mistake.

Most of us don’t enjoy admitting we’re wrong. Maybe we’re afraid it will be used against us later. Maybe we worry it will make us look less competent. Maybe we simply don’t like the feeling of losing face.

Whatever the reason, those small admissions can be surprisingly difficult.

And if admitting we’re wrong about something small is difficult, imagine what happens when the disagreement involves something much bigger – our politics, our religion, the way we’ve raised our children, or beliefs we’ve held for decades. Those aren’t just opinions. They’re often part of our identity. Changing our minds in those situations doesn’t simply require admitting we were mistaken. It can feel like admitting that part of who we are was mistaken.

I think many of us forget this when we disagree with one another.

We assume that if we can simply prove ourselves right, other people will recognize the evidence, admit they were wrong, and change their minds.

But that’s rarely how people change.

Being right matters. Facts matter. Evidence matters.

But being right and changing someone’s mind are not the same thing.

Imagine someone who insists on giving directions from memory instead of using GPS.

You follow their directions, get hopelessly lost, and mention it the next time you see them.

You could say, “You gave me bad directions. You should have just used GPS.”

You might even be right.

But what happens next?

Most people don’t respond by saying, “You’re absolutely right. I’ll never do that again.”

Instead, they explain. They defend themselves. They remember the one time GPS took them the wrong way. The conversation becomes less about finding the best route and more about defending the old one.

Now imagine a different conversation.

“I got turned around, but no big deal. I pulled up GPS and found it. I actually leave it on even when I think I know where I’m going. It’s saved me more than once.”

You never told them they were wrong.

You simply gave them another way to think about the problem.

The next time they drive somewhere unfamiliar, they may quietly turn on GPS themselves.

If they do, they’ve changed their behavior – but they arrived there on their own.

That difference matters.

Good parents understand it. Their goal isn’t to win arguments with their children. It’s to help them become adults who can make good decisions without them.

Good teachers understand it too. Simply telling students the answer isn’t the same as teaching them how to think. The best lessons are often the ones students feel like they discovered for themselves.

The same is true in marriages, friendships, workplaces, and public life.

We spend enormous amounts of energy trying to convince people that they’re wrong.

Perhaps we’d accomplish more by helping them discover what’s right.

That’s the strange thing about changing minds.

People rarely enjoy having their minds changed.

But they often enjoy changing their own minds.

Real change almost never comes from being pushed. It comes from choosing.

If our goal is simply to be right, proving someone wrong may be enough.

But if our goal is to change minds, our job isn’t to drag people to the answer.

It’s to help them find it themselves.