The Courage To Be Wrong

I Need to Admit Something

I need to admit something I’ve carried like a hidden wound for twelve years. Not a secret I kept from the world. A secret I kept from myself. I was wrong. And it cost a life.

It wasn’t a moral failing. It wasn’t a choice. It was a mistake. A medic’s mistake. The kind you never admit to, especially in the military. Especially in Afghanistan. Especially when you’re the one who should have known better.

I was a young corpsman, second tour, on a routine patrol in Kandahar. A firefight erupted. A soldier took a round to the thigh. I ran to him, heart hammering against my ribs. The wound was bad – spurting blood, a shattered femur. My training screamed: Tourniquet. Now. Don’t wait. But I hesitated. I know more than the corpsman on the team, I thought. I’ve seen this before. I can control the bleeding with pressure. I was sure I was right. I was certain my judgment was superior.

I spent those precious seconds trying to apply direct pressure with a gauze pad, while the soldier bled out. The corpsman, a veteran who’d seen it all, said nothing. Just watched. The bullet didn’t miss. I did. I was wrong. And the soldier didn’t make it back to the medevac. I stood there, blood on my hands, the smell of cordite and fear thick in the air, and I knew. Not just knew, but felt it in my bones: I’d been wrong. And I’d let it cost a life.

Why I Never Said It

For twelve years, I didn’t say it. Not to my supervisor. Not to the family of the soldier. Not even to myself. I buried it under layers of "I was doing my job," "It was a complex situation," "The system failed." But the truth was simpler, and far more terrifying: I was afraid. Afraid of the judgment. Afraid of the shame. Afraid of admitting I wasn’t infallible. In the military, in the world of trauma care, being wrong was synonymous with being weak. With failing. With not being worthy of the trust placed in me.

I became the therapist who never made a mistake. I’d sit across from a firefighter who’d botched a rescue, or a cop who’d misjudged a suspect, and I’d say, "It happens. You’re human." But I’d never say it to myself. I’d never admit my mistake. I’d just do the job perfectly, like I’d been trained to do. Because admitting I was wrong felt like admitting I didn’t deserve to be here. Like admitting I’d failed the soldier who died.

The Moment of Truth

It wasn’t a grand epiphany. It was a Tuesday. A veteran, a former Marine sergeant, sat in my office, tears streaming down his face. He’d been the lead negotiator during a hostage situation. He’d misread the suspect’s body language. The suspect had pulled a gun. A young officer was shot. The sergeant was sure he’d done everything right. He’d been certain. Until he wasn’t.

He looked at me, raw and broken, and whispered, "I thought I had to be perfect. I thought if I was wrong, I’d be broken. I’d be… less." He’d carried the weight of that mistake for years, just like I had. He’d hidden it, just like I had. He’d thought he was the only one who could be wrong.

And in that moment, looking at his pain, I saw my own reflection. The soldier’s face. The blood. The crushing weight of being wrong. I couldn’t just say, "It happens." I had to say it. I had to say my truth.

I took a breath. My hands were shaking. I looked him in the eye, and I said the words I’d buried for twelve years: "I was wrong. I was wrong about that tourniquet. I was wrong about the soldier. I was wrong about everything I thought I knew. And it cost a life. I’ve carried that weight for twelve years. I thought admitting it would break me. It didn’t. It just made me human."

The silence in the room was thick. Then, the sergeant just nodded. A single tear fell. He didn’t say anything. But the tension in his shoulders… it released. Like a dam breaking. He said, "Thank you. For saying it."

What Changed

That moment changed everything. Not because I suddenly became a better therapist. Because I finally became a real therapist. I stopped pretending I was perfect. I stopped hiding my own stumbles. I stopped making my clients feel alone in their mistakes.

Here’s what I learned, and what I see in my clients every day:

Mistakes aren’t failures. They’re data. That soldier’s death wasn’t a failure of me; it was a failure of my training, my nerves, my ego. It was a lesson. A brutal, necessary lesson. I stopped seeing my mistake as a stain on my character and started seeing it as a map for how to do better next time. That* is the courage: to look at the mistake, not as a reason to hide, but as a path forward. Vulnerability isn’t weakness. It’s the only bridge to connection. When I admitted my mistake to the sergeant, I didn’t become less of a therapist. I became more. He could finally trust me because I was real. He could finally trust himself because he saw it was okay to be wrong. That’s the power of admitting you’re human. It’s not a crack in your armor; it’s the only* place where light gets in. The cost of hiding is always higher. The cost of hiding my mistake was twelve years of shame, isolation, and a constant, low-grade anxiety that I was one mistake away from being exposed as a fraud. The cost of admitting it? A moment of discomfort. And the gift of relief. The gift of connection. The gift of being free*.

Here’s What Works

You don’t have to be a medic or a therapist to understand this. You don’t have to have made a life-or-death error. You can be wrong about anything – a decision, a feeling, a word you said. And it’s okay. It’s necessary. Here’s how to start:

1. Name the mistake. Not "I messed up," but what you messed up. "I was wrong about the timeline for the project." "I was wrong to assume my friend was angry." Be specific. Vague guilt is a trap. 2. Say it out loud. To yourself first. "I was wrong." Then, to someone you trust. Not to a crowd. Not to the person you hurt (yet). Start small. "Hey, I need to admit something. I was wrong about X." The fear of saying it is always worse than the actual words. 3. Don’t apologize for the mistake. Apologize for the impact. "I was wrong about the deadline, and that caused you extra stress. I’m sorry for that." The mistake is the fact. The apology is for the hurt. 4. Ask for help. "I was wrong. What should I do now?" This is the real courage. It’s not about being perfect. It’s about being present and willing to learn.

This isn’t about self-flagellation. It’s about reclaiming your power. When you admit you were wrong, you stop letting that mistake define you. You stop letting it control your next move. You take back the power to do better.

Courage Isn’t What You Think

I’ve seen the worst. I’ve seen people broken by the weight of their mistakes. I’ve seen people survive it. Not by hiding, not by pretending, but by owning it. By saying, "I was wrong. Now, what do I do?"

Courage isn’t charging into a firefight. It’s sitting down with the person you hurt and saying, "I was wrong." It’s looking at your own reflection and saying, "I’m human. And that’s okay."

The soldier I couldn’t save didn’t die because I was a bad medic. He died because I was afraid to admit I was human. I’ve spent twelve years learning that being human isn’t a flaw. It’s the only thing that makes us strong enough to keep going. To keep helping. To keep serving.

So, I’m admitting it. I was wrong. I’m still wrong sometimes. And that’s okay. It’s not the end of the story. It’s the beginning of something real. Something strong.

— Lois Brown, still serving