I Need to Admit Something
I need to admit something I’ve carried for years, a quiet shame I’ve tucked away like a crumpled receipt in a pocket. It’s not a grand sin. It’s not even a moral failing. It’s simply this: I was wrong. And I hid it. For months. I let the silence between us grow thick and heavy, a wall built of my own stubborn pride, while the person I loved most sat on the other side, waiting for me to say the words that would have set us both free.
It happened with Mrs. Henderson, a woman in her late 80s, dying of heart failure in the hospice house. Her daughter, Sarah, was her primary caregiver, a woman with eyes that held the exhaustion of a thousand nights. Sarah was also grieving her mother’s slow decline, her own life on hold. One Tuesday afternoon, Sarah came to me, her voice tight with a frustration I’d seen before. “She’s been asking for her other medication,” she said, her knuckles white on the arm of the chair. “The one you said wasn’t necessary anymore. I told her you’d explained it, but she keeps asking. She’s confused. She’s scared.”
I’d been the chaplain, the calm voice in the room, the one who knew the protocols. I’d reviewed her chart that morning. The cardiologist had definitely ordered the medication discontinued. I’d confirmed it with the nurse. I knew it was unnecessary. I’d even told Sarah, “Don’t worry, it’s been stopped. She’ll be fine without it.” But I hadn’t checked the actual medication administration record. I’d assumed. I’d been sure.
And I’d been wrong.
The medication was still being administered. A simple clerical error. A miscommunication. Mrs. Henderson was confused, was scared. And I’d dismissed Sarah’s concern with a wave of my hand and a confident, false assurance. I’d made it about my certainty, not about Sarah’s fear or her mother’s suffering. I’d hidden the mistake behind a shield of professional competence.
For weeks, I avoided Sarah. I’d make myself busy in the hallway, take a long walk around the garden, anything to not face her eyes when she’d ask about her mother’s medication. I’d hear the quiet desperation in her voice, the unspoken plea: Please, tell me you were wrong. Please, tell me it’s okay. But I couldn’t. The thought of admitting I’d been wrong, that I’d caused unnecessary worry, that I’d failed to see what was right in front of me – it felt like a physical blow. It felt like admitting I wasn’t the calm, competent chaplain I’d convinced myself I was. It felt like losing control.
Why was it so hard to face?
Because admitting I was wrong felt like admitting I was less. Less capable. Less trustworthy. Less worthy of the trust people placed in me, especially in that sacred space where people were most vulnerable. In hospice, we’re supposed to be the steady ones, the ones who know. We’re supposed to be the calm in the storm of grief and fear. Admitting a mistake felt like stepping off the pedestal, like admitting I was just as human, just as fallible, as the people I was trying to help. It felt like admitting I was not the expert I’d built my identity around being.
I’d spent years learning to sit with the big hard things – the terror of death, the rawness of grief, the unbearable weight of loss. But I’d never learned to sit with the small hard thing: my own error. The small, ordinary mistake that caused real pain. I’d learned to hold space for others’ pain, but I couldn’t hold space for my own discomfort. I’d learned to be the listener, but I’d forgotten how to be the one who listened to my own need to be honest.
The moment of honesty wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, much like the one Sarah had approached me. The hospice house was quiet, the late sun slanting through the windows. Sarah was sitting with her mother, who was sleeping. I found her alone in the small, sun-dappled family room, holding a cup of tea, her face etched with a quiet sorrow I’d come to recognize.
I sat down slowly, the chair creaking softly. My throat felt tight. I looked at her, really looked at her, not at the problem, but at her. At the exhaustion, the love, the fear that had been simmering for months.
“Sarah,” I began, my voice rough. “I need to tell you something. I need to tell you something. Something I should have told you weeks ago.” I took a breath, the words catching. “I was wrong about the medication. I told you it was stopped. I thought it was stopped. But it wasn’t. It was still being given. I didn’t check the actual record. I assumed. And I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I made you worry, and I’m so sorry I made your mother confused and scared. It was my mistake. I was wrong.”
The silence that followed wasn’t the heavy, angry silence I’d feared. It was a different kind of silence. It was the silence of a weight lifting. Sarah didn’t yell. She didn’t cry out in anger. She just looked at me, her eyes searching mine, and then she let out a slow, deep breath. A breath she’d been holding for weeks. Her shoulders, which had been perpetually hunched, relaxed just a fraction.
“Oh,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Oh. Okay.” She paused, then added, “I was so scared she was forgetting things. I thought maybe it was the medicine making her confused. I was so worried I was missing something.” She looked down at her hands. “Thank you for telling me.”
That was it. No grand resolution. No instant healing. Just a simple, honest admission, and the quiet release of a burden she’d been carrying alone.
What changed?
Everything, and nothing. The medication was corrected immediately. Mrs. Henderson’s confusion eased. But the real change wasn’t in the chart or the medication. It was in the space between Sarah and me. The trust wasn’t rebuilt in a single moment; it was renewed. It was a different kind of trust – not the trust in my infallibility, but the trust in my humanity. The trust that I could be wrong, and that I would own it.
And it changed me. It taught me that the most profound courage isn’t in never falling, but in the willingness to say, “I fell. I was wrong.” It’s the courage to let the mask of competence drop, to show up as a flawed, human being in the midst of the sacred work of caring for others. It’s the courage to sit with the discomfort of being wrong, instead of rushing to fix it or hide it.
Here’s what I’ve learned: Admitting you’re wrong isn’t a sign of weakness; it’s the ultimate act of strength and respect. It’s saying, “Your pain matters more than my ego.” It’s saying, “I see you. I see the impact of my actions. I’m sorry.” It’s the opposite of arrogance. It’s the opposite of fear.
It’s okay to not be okay with being wrong. It’s okay to feel the sting of that admission. It’s okay to feel the fear of being seen as fallible. But it’s not okay to let that fear build a wall between you and the people you care about. The wall only makes the loneliness heavier.
What if we just... sat with that for a moment?
What if, instead of rushing to defend our position, to prove we were right, we paused? What if we asked ourselves, “Is my need to be right more important than the person sitting across from me?” What if we let the silence hold the space for the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable?
This isn’t about grand apologies. It’s about the small, daily choices. It’s about admitting to your partner, “I was wrong about that thing I said. I’m sorry I hurt you.” It’s about telling your friend, “I didn’t mean to dismiss your feelings. I was wrong to say that.” It’s about the quiet moment in the grocery store line when you realize you’ve been wrong about something you’ve been holding onto, and you simply let it go, without needing to explain or justify.
It’s the ordinary moment where you choose honesty over the illusion of being perfect. And in that ordinary moment, you find the sacred. You find the space where real connection can breathe. You find the freedom that comes from finally putting down the heavy burden of pretending.
I still get it wrong. I still feel that knot in my throat when I’m about to admit a mistake. But now, I know the truth: the silence after the admission is never as heavy as the silence before it. And the relief that follows? It’s the quietest, most profound sound in the world. It’s the sound of being truly, imperfectly, human. And it’s the sound that finally lets us live.
— Kyle Smith, sitting with what's hard
Written by Kyle Smith — 05:21, 02 January 2026 (CST)