I Need To Admit Something
I need to admit something I’ve never written down, never said out loud to a single soul in my 15 years of therapy. Not even to my closest colleagues. It’s the kind of admission that makes your throat tighten and your palms sweat, the kind that feels like admitting you’ve been lying to yourself for years. I was wrong. Not about a small thing. About the core of how I thought I had to be.
For years, I believed courage meant never changing your mind. That it meant holding fast to your position, your diagnosis, your certainty, no matter what. Especially in the field. Especially when lives were on the line. I saw it in the medevac pilots who refused to divert from a mission because "the patient was stable." I saw it in the commanders who dismissed early signs of PTSD because "it’s just stress." I saw it in myself. In Afghanistan, I’d stand over a wounded soldier, my mind already made up on the treatment path, refusing to consider an alternative because I was the expert. I’d shut down questions from the young corpsman because "I’ve got this." I thought admitting uncertainty was the same as admitting weakness. That it was the first step down a slippery slope to failure.
I hid my own doubt. I buried it under layers of "I know what I’m doing" and "This is how it’s done." I’d stare at a patient’s chart, my stomach churning with a nagging suspicion that the standard protocol wasn’t working, but I’d push it down. Don’t question the system. Don’t show doubt. Be the rock. I’d tell myself, "If I waver, they’ll see the crack. They’ll think I’m not strong enough." I was terrified of being wrong, of being seen as less.
Why was it so hard to face? Because in the military, in the emergency room, in the therapy office – changing your mind felt like surrender. It felt like admitting you weren’t the person you were supposed to be. It felt like failing the people counting on you. I’d seen the consequences of hesitation – the delayed treatment, the missed signs. But I’d never seen the cost of rigidity. I’d never seen the patient who suffered because the medic was too proud to ask for a second opinion. I’d never seen the veteran who stayed silent because he thought admitting he was struggling meant he’d lost his badge of courage.
The moment it cracked? It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. A veteran named Mark, a former firefighter, sat in my office. He’d been coming for months, talking about "just needing to be stronger," avoiding the word "trauma" like it was poison. One session, he finally broke. Not with tears, but with a quiet, hard stare. "Doc," he said, "you keep telling me I need to ask for help. But you never ask for help yourself, do you? You just... know." He wasn’t angry. He was just stating a fact I’d been too afraid to hear. "You’re the one who says it’s brave to ask. But you never do."
The room tilted. My carefully constructed wall of certainty crumbled. I looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the truth I’d been avoiding: I was the one who was broken. I’d been hiding behind my own "knowing" just like he was hiding behind his "strength." I’d been teaching resilience while refusing to model vulnerability. I’d been the problem, not the solution.
I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t have a "protocol" for this. I just sat there, the silence screaming louder than any words. And then, for the first time in my career, I said it: "Mark... you’re right. I haven’t asked for help. I’ve been afraid to. I thought changing my mind meant I was weak. I was wrong." It wasn’t a grand speech. It was a whisper, thick with shame and the terrifying weight of honesty.
The shift wasn’t instant. But it was real. Mark didn’t leave. He leaned forward. "Yeah," he said simply. "Me too."
Here’s what works: Changing your mind isn’t a failure. It’s the only way to grow. It’s the opposite of weakness. It’s the most courageous thing you can do when you’re drowning in your own certainty.
I’ve seen the worst – the shattered bodies, the shattered minds, the silence that screams. And I’ve seen people survive it. Not because they were perfect, not because they never changed their minds, but because they did change their minds. They admitted they were wrong. They asked for help. They let go of the need to be the unshakeable rock and became the human being who could actually help others.
Courage isn’t what you think. It’s not the roar of the crowd, the unflinching stare into the fire. It’s the quiet, trembling voice that says, "I don’t know," or "I was wrong," or "I need help." It’s the moment you choose honesty over the illusion of control. It’s the moment you realize that not changing your mind is the real danger.
This isn’t just about me. It’s about every first responder who thinks asking for help means they’re broken. It’s about every therapist who thinks they have to have all the answers. It’s about you, reading this, who might be holding onto a belief that’s hurting you, because you’re afraid to admit it’s wrong.
What changed for me? Everything. I stopped pretending I had all the answers. I started asking my colleagues, "What do you think?" I started saying to clients, "I don’t know the answer to that yet. Let’s figure it out together." I started admitting my own struggles in therapy sessions, not as a weakness, but as a strength – a demonstration that healing isn’t about being perfect, it’s about being real.
I started teaching my clients this: The bravest thing you can do is admit you don’t have all the answers. It’s not a sign of failure; it’s the first step toward finding a better way. It’s how you save the patient you’re treating. It’s how you save yourself.
Here’s the practical step: Next time you feel that knot of certainty tighten – when you’re sure you’re right, when you’re resisting a different perspective – pause. Breathe. Ask yourself: "What’s the cost of being right here? What’s the cost of being wrong?" Then, ask the question you’ve been avoiding: "What if I’m wrong?" And then, say it out loud. To yourself. To your partner. To your therapist. "I think I might be wrong about this." It’s terrifying. It’s also the only way to move forward.
I’ve seen the worst, and I’ve seen people survive it. Not because they were unshakeable, but because they were willing to be shaken. They were willing to change their minds. They were willing to be vulnerable. That’s the real courage. That’s the strength that lasts.
So, if you’re holding onto a belief that’s hurting you – the belief that you shouldn’t need help, that you must be strong all the time, that you know the answer – I’m telling you this: It’s okay to change your mind. It’s not a failure. It’s the bravest, most human thing you can do. It’s how you get to the other side.
The rock doesn’t move. The river does. And sometimes, the river is the only way to get to the other side.
— Lois Brown, still serving