Why saying “I was wrong” is a power move (And how to practice it)

You’re halfway through loading the plates. Someone leans over and says, “That’s not how it goes.” You smile, sure. But inside, you’re already drafting your closing argument. Welcome to the everyday theater of being wrong—and not knowing how to handle it.

Whether it’s a casual correction in the kitchen or a full-blown ideological clash online, the moment we’re contradicted can feel deeply personal. But that flash of defensiveness, that invisible bristle, is also the exact entry point to a trait psychologists are starting to spotlight more: intellectual humility. And in a culture where being loud is often confused with being right, it might be the most underrated skill of all.

It sounds like a personality test result or a philosophy elective. But intellectual humility is surprisingly simple: it’s the ability to admit you could be wrong—and still feel whole. According to psychologist Tenelle Porter, people with high intellectual humility understand the limits of their knowledge. They’re curious, not clingy. They listen without pre-loading a rebuttal. They recognize that opinions aren’t marriage vows—and that beliefs can change without erasing identity. This doesn’t mean you lack opinions. It means you know the difference between being right and being righteous.

Here’s the kicker: being corrected hits us in the ego, not the intellect.

That’s because for many of us, knowing things—big or small—is tied to how we feel seen. You’re “the organized one.” Or “the one who knows politics.” Or “the one who always gets the pub quiz answers right.” So when someone fact-checks you, it’s not just your statement on trial—it’s your identity. Neuroscientist Leor Zmigrod says people with low intellectual humility tend to see contradiction as threat. They double down, escalate, deflect. Because losing the argument feels like losing status. But here’s the truth: if your confidence shatters when challenged, it wasn’t confidence—it was control.

If you’ve ever silently replayed a couple’s argument from three days ago while brushing your teeth, you already know how this plays out in relationships. Therapist Nedra Glover Tawwab notes that people with more intellectual humility tend to manage conflict better—and recover faster. They don’t see every disagreement as a showdown. They know that “you were right” can be a bridge, not a surrender.

Research backs this up: couples with higher intellectual humility report stronger satisfaction and more trust, especially during major transitions like parenthood. Humility, it turns out, might be the real green flag.

Let’s zoom out. Intellectual humility isn’t just about debates. It’s about how you move through daily life. Do you get irritated when plans change last-minute? Feel anxious when someone suggests a different route or method? Flinch when routines are disrupted? That’s the same muscle being tested—your flexibility, your grip on control, your openness to uncertainty. Dr. Zmigrod says people who react poorly to contradiction often struggle with cognitive rigidity in general. So if you’re chronically defensive, the problem might not be the conversation. It might be the framework you’re using to feel safe.

Spoiler: most people think they’re humble. Few are.

Daryl Van Tongeren, who researches humility and social behavior, says when he launched his book, readers would nod and say, “Wow, this is what my boss needs.” Rarely did anyone say, “This is what I need.” So how do you know if this is your work to do? Start by noticing your reactions to contradiction. Does your body tighten? Do you mentally start building a case while the other person is still talking? Then, ask for feedback—gently. Ask a friend, coworker, or partner, “Do I come off as open to other views? Or defensive of mine?” (Just be sure you’re ready to actually hear the answer.)

If you’ve ever tried to admit you were wrong and felt like your insides collapsed, you’re not alone. Tawwab says the trick is to reframe what being wrong means. Most of us equate it with being foolish, careless, or unworthy. But being wrong isn’t the opposite of being smart. It’s the beginning of being better. Try remembering a time when being corrected actually helped you—saved you time, spared you pain, taught you something cool. That memory primes your brain to associate error with growth, not shame. Over time, saying “you’re right” gets easier. And you won’t have to armor up every time someone disagrees.

Here’s a plot twist: humility doesn’t have to be immediate.

You don’t have to admit you’re wrong on the spot. Sometimes it takes time. You need to sit with the sting. Think it through. Talk yourself down from the spiral. And that’s valid. Tawwab says circling back later—hours, days even—is still humility. “You were right about that. I didn’t see it at the time.” That line can do wonders for a relationship. It shows reflection. It shows trust. It shows you’re playing the long game, not just winning the round.

Here’s the hard part: you can’t force someone else into humility. Especially not by telling them they lack it.

Tawwab suggests inviting, not instructing. Share a book. Suggest a quiz. Mention that you’re working on this yourself. “I’ve been trying to be less reactive when people challenge me—want to try too?” It’s less about changing them, more about building shared language. You’re not handing out a lesson. You’re opening a door. Because let’s be honest: no one likes being lectured mid-disagreement. But everyone wants to be understood.

In a world saturated with hot takes, being uncertain is countercultural. Social media rewards speed, certainty, and performative knowing. Platforms don’t make space for “I might be wrong.” They reward bold claims, not careful listening. But in real life, with real people, certainty has a shelf life. We don’t need more confidence. We need more curiosity. Less defending. More evolving. More people willing to pause, listen, adjust.

Not because it makes us “nice.” But because it makes us wiser, kinder, more connected. And frankly, less exhausting to talk to. The rise of algorithm-fed silos and tribal identity has made nuance feel dangerous. People aren’t just defending opinions—they’re defending entire self-concepts built around being on the “right” side. The cost? Dialogue that becomes brittle. Friendships that fracture over tone. Workplace brainstorms where no one dares to challenge the loudest voice.

Practicing intellectual humility—especially now—isn’t weakness. It’s resilience. It’s also self-protection. Because in a world that shifts fast, the ability to update your mental model isn’t just a virtue. It’s survival. New science emerges. Cultural norms evolve. What was once “obvious” gets debunked. What was “safe” gets rethought. So let’s stop treating certainty like armor. It was never meant to be. Not for minds still growing. Not for people still learning.

Humility doesn’t mean erasing your voice. It means knowing when to lower the volume—so you can actually hear. Because the smartest people in the room? Often the ones still learning. And the strongest relationships? Usually built on the quiet power of “You might be right.”

But let’s be real: practicing intellectual humility isn’t always noble or elegant. Sometimes it’s messy. Sometimes it feels like swallowing sand. Especially when your ego’s already bruised, or when someone points something out in a way that’s technically correct but emotionally clumsy. Still, choosing to pause instead of pounce rewires more than just conversations. It rewires trust. It models emotional maturity for partners, friends, colleagues, even your kids. And maybe most importantly, it frees you. Because carrying the burden of always being right? That’s exhausting.

Humility doesn’t mean you stop showing up. It means you start showing up differently—more open, more human, less theatrical. So next time you feel that tightness rise in your chest, that instinct to correct or win, try this instead: What if I just listened a little longer? Not to lose. Not to submit. Just to stay connected. Just to keep evolving. Because in the long run, being right fades. But being real—that lasts.