Big Enough to Be Wrong By Kateb Shunnar – Part 1

Big Enough to Be Wrong

By Kateb Shunnar – Part 1

Breaking Barriers and Being a Better You

I used to think that saying “I was wrong” would shrink me down to something ridiculous, like one of those weather-beaten garden gnomes leaning sideways in somebody’s yard, collecting bird droppings. I swore it would make me small. Invisible. Forgettable. But you know what I’ve learned after living a little after tripping over my own pride more times than I care to count? It takes a giant to admit they missed the mark. A real giant. Someone big enough to laugh at themselves, big enough to say, “Yep, I went face-first into the mud, and not the spa kind either. I’m talking worm-filled, shoe-ruining, laundry-nightmare mud.” Isn’t it wild how we strut through life like our thoughts came engraved on stone tablets, as if the Creator Himself whispered into our ear, “Don’t worry, you’ll never be wrong”? Please. If that were true, half of us wouldn’t have to apologize to the same people for the same mistakes in brand-new outfits. Pride is slick that way it slaps a tuxedo on arrogance, sprinkles it with cologne, and calls it “confidence.” But peel it back just a little and you’ll find insecurity hiding underneath, trembling like it showed up underdressed to the party.

When I was a kid, my grandmother Celestine used to catch me being stubborn. She was gentle about it, but sharp too. If I insisted I knew how to do something like clean fish faster than her (which was never true) she’d smile, hand me the knife, and let me embarrass myself. And she’d hum while I hacked that poor fish into something unrecognizable. When I finally admitted, “Grandma, I messed it up,” she never scolded. She just said, “Now you’re ready to learn.” That line stuck with me. Admitting wrong wasn’t the end of me it was the beginning of wisdom. And yet, here I am decades later, still dragging my heels like a mule sometimes. Some lessons apparently need to be repeated.

My mom, Marva, was the same way, just with a sharper tongue. She’d look me dead in the eye and say, “You can’t fool God, and you can’t fool me.” And I’d sit there, busted, trying to cook up excuses like a chef throwing random ingredients into a pot. She had no patience for fake apologies. “I’m sorry you felt that way”? Please. She’d cut through that nonsense with a glare that could melt steel. A real apology, she taught me, is naming what you did, owning it, and shutting up long enough to listen. Anything else is just pride with lipstick.

It reminds me of an old story I carry in my back pocket, about a village and a mountain. Folks spent generations trying to shove that mountain out of the way cursing it, blasting at it, praying angry prayers at it. Nothing worked. Then one woman, worn down by another failed harvest, dropped her tools at the base of it. She whispered, “I was wrong. I thought I could force this with my strength. Forgive me.” The earth trembled. Stones cracked. The mountain split, not vanishing, but opening just wide enough for the people to pass through. The moral? Some obstacles only move when you drop the act and admit you don’t have it all together.

Of course, most of us would rather be Harun the fisherman. You know the type he stood at the riverbank shouting at the water like it owed him rent, puffed up like he was Moses but with a fishing net instead of a staff. While families lost homes to the flood, Harun kept barking orders at the river, insisting he was right. Pride will keep you yelling at the flood until you’re choking on water. Humility, though? Humility hands you a ladder. And I’ll confess I’ve been Harun. I’ve shouted, I’ve cursed, I’ve convinced myself my voice alone could bend reality. All it did was make me look like the loudest fool in the room.

The Creator didn’t give us words to be grenades. He gave us words to build bridges. And admitting you’re wrong really wrong, not fake-wrong is like laying down brick after brick of trust. It’s uncomfortable, sure. It feels like weakness at first. But it’s actually a spiritual flex. You can’t stand before the Creator asking for wisdom if you’re clutching ignorance like it’s your prized possession. Grace only slips in through the cracks of humility.

I’ve been in those ridiculous arguments where I knew in my head I was wrong, but my mouth staged a rebellion. Suddenly I’m pulling out receipts from five years ago, twisting my words like a magician pulling scarves from a sleeve, all to avoid saying two simple words: “I’m wrong.” For what? To “win”? That kind of victory feels hollow. It’s loneliness with glitter sprinkled on top. But the minute you finally let go, admit it out loud, the tension pops like a balloon. Everyone breathes again. Suddenly you’re not opponents screaming from opposite cliffs you’re standing on the same ground, solving it together. Pride builds walls. Humility cuts doors into them.

Now don’t mistake me: humility doesn’t mean being a pushover. It doesn’t mean people get to walk all over you like a welcome mat. It means standing tall without the armor of arrogance. It’s saying, “I respect you enough and myself enough to admit I got it wrong.” That kind of honesty? It ripples outward. Your kids catch it. Your friends catch it. Even your enemies catch it. And somewhere in that ripple, you find peace.

Kateb.

And here’s the thing: I’m about to turn 47 this September, and if there’s one thing the years have taught me, it’s this the Creator never demanded perfection from me. He asked for honesty, humility, and a heart willing to grow. My grandmother’s knife lessons, my mom’s laser-beam eyes, my own stumbles in mud and pride they all point back to the same truth: it’s not about never falling, it’s about not pretending you didn’t. So when the choice comes down to being “right” or being real, I’ve learned to lean toward real. Because being right at all costs can cost you everything. But being real? That saves you. It frees you. And if you’re lucky, it just might split a mountain or two wide enough for you to finally walk through.

Make A Donation