The Burden Of Always Being Right

The Burden of Always Being Right

Look, I’m no expert on this. I’m just a guy who spent twenty years trying to be perfect at everything—fixing wires, fixing my kids, fixing my own damn life—and it nearly broke me. I’m Jimmy Hawkins, electrician by trade, single dad by circumstance, and I’m writing this because I finally stopped carrying that weight. You know what I learned? The heaviest thing you can carry isn’t a toolbox full of wire cutters. It’s the burden of always being right.

Why "Always Right" Feels Like a Badge of Honor (Until It Isn’t)

Back when my wife, Sarah, was still here, I’d fix the leaky faucet before she even asked. I’d rewire the kitchen lights before the bulbs flickered. I thought if I got it perfect, she’d stay. I’d tell myself, "If I’m right about everything, she won’t leave."

One Tuesday, I was replacing a faulty breaker panel at a house. The homeowner, Mrs. Gable, kept asking, "Is this safe? Are you sure?" I snapped, "Ma’am, I’ve been doing this for twenty years. I know what I’m doing." She backed off, but I could see the fear in her eyes. Later, I found out she’d had a son who’d died from an electrical fire years ago. I’d been so busy proving I was right that I didn’t see she was scared.

That’s the thing about "always right": it’s not about being correct. It’s about being unshakable. And that’s a lie we tell ourselves to cover up the fear of being wrong.

The Day "Right" Cost Me My Wife

Sarah died when our youngest, Mia, was two. I was the "right" guy—always. I handled the funeral, the insurance, the bills. I didn’t cry in front of the kids. I had to be right.

But here’s what I didn’t see: Sarah was tired. She’d been fighting depression for years, and I’d been too busy being "the fixer" to notice. I’d say things like, "You just need to try harder," or "I’ve got this under control." I was so focused on being right that I missed the fact she was drowning.

After she was gone, I blamed myself. "If I’d been more right, more present, she’d still be here." I’d sit in the dark, staring at the empty spot beside me in bed, thinking I’d failed because I wasn’t perfect.

That’s the trap. The burden of always being right doesn’t just cost you moments—it costs you everything.

The Breaking Point: When "Right" Made Me a Stranger to My Own Kids

Mia’s first-grade play was a disaster. She was supposed to recite a poem about the sun, but she froze. I’d been so busy fixing a faulty circuit at a client’s house that I’d missed her dress rehearsal. When I got there late, she was crying.

"Where were you, Dad?" she whispered. "I was right where I needed to be," I said, still in my work boots. She looked at me like I was a stranger.

That night, I sat on the floor of her room, holding her while she cried. I realized I’d been so focused on being "right" at work—on being the guy who never made a mistake—that I’d forgotten how to be present with my kids. I’d been so busy being "right" that I’d become wrong about what mattered.

Here’s What I Figured Out (After Years of Messing Up)

1. "Being right" is a performance. "Being present" is a practice. I used to think fixing a loose wire meant I was a good dad. But fixing a loose wire while ignoring your daughter’s scraped knee? That’s not being right. That’s being wrong about what’s important. Now, if I’m with the kids, I put my phone away. I don’t check my work email during dinner. I see them.

2. You don’t have to be right to be loved. Sarah didn’t need me to be perfect. She needed me to see her. I learned that the hard way. Now, when my oldest, Ben, gets angry about his grades, I don’t say, "You’re wrong to feel that way." I say, "I’m sorry you’re feeling that way. Tell me about it." It’s not about being right. It’s about being there.

3. "Being wrong" is how you learn. Last month, I over-engineered a new light fixture for a client. I used a fancy switch instead of a simple one. It cost him extra, and he was mad. I could’ve argued, "I’m right, this is better." But I didn’t. I said, "You’re right. I should’ve kept it simple. Let’s fix it." He smiled. We got it right together.

4. The "rests" in life are just as important as the beats. I used to think silence meant I was failing. Now I know: silence is where you breathe. When Mia’s crying after a bad day, I don’t rush to fix it. I sit with her. I say, "It’s okay to feel this way." That’s the rest. That’s where the healing happens.

Common Mistakes I Made (And You’ll Probably Make Too)

• Mistake: "I’ll fix it later."

      Why it’s wrong: "Later" never comes. When Sarah was sick, I kept saying, "I’ll talk to her tomorrow."* I never did.  
      What I do now: If it’s important, I do it now. Even if it’s just a text: "I love you. How was your day?"*  

• Mistake: "I don’t have time for this."

      Why it’s wrong:* Time is a choice. I’d skip Ben’s soccer game because I was "too busy." Now I go. Always.  
      What I do now: I block time on my calendar for them*. No exceptions.  

• Mistake: "I should know better."

      Why it’s wrong: You don’t* know better. You’re learning.  
      What I do now: I say, "I messed up. Let’s try again."* And I mean it.  

The Practical Shift: How I Actually Do This Now

This isn’t about being "perfect." It’s about being human. Here’s how I show up when I don’t want to:

1. I let go of the need to be "right" in small things.

   If Mia says, "I hate broccoli," I don’t argue, "No, you don’t. It’s healthy." I say, "Okay, we’ll try it another way." It’s not about winning. It’s about listening.  

2. I do the next thing, not the perfect thing.

   When I’m tired after a long day, I don’t wait for "perfect" to help Ben with homework. I just sit with him. "Let’s try this one problem," I say. It’s messy. It’s not perfect. But it’s there.  

3. I admit when I’m wrong.

   Last week, I told Ben he was "wrong" about his friend being mean. He cried. I said, "I was wrong. I’m sorry. Let’s talk about it." He hugged me. That’s the moment I stopped being "right" and started being present.  

4. I let the silence be okay.

   When the kids are quiet in the car, I don’t fill it with my voice. I just be. Sometimes, that’s the most right thing I can do.  

What I Gained (And What I Lost)

I lost years. I lost Sarah. I lost the chance to hold her hand when she was scared. I lost the chance to say, "I see you."

But I gained something bigger: - The ability to sit with my kids in the dark without needing to fix it. - The courage to say, "I don’t know," instead of pretending I do. - The peace of knowing that being wrong doesn’t mean I’m broken.

The burden of always being right? It’s a lie. The truth is, you don’t have to be right to be loved. You don’t have to be perfect to be enough. You just have to show up.

So when you feel that weight of "always being right" pressing down on you—when you’re trying to prove you’re the fixer, the expert, the perfect dad—stop. Breathe. And do the next thing. Not the perfect thing. Just the next thing.

Because the only thing that matters isn’t being right. It’s being there.

— Jimmy Hawkins, just a dad figuring it out