If you accept that you’re a fool, being wrong is a lot less scary

By David McElroy · August 24, 2025

My life has been a lot less stressful since I found the humility to admit that I’m often a fool.

There was a time when I was afraid of what other people might think. I wouldn’t have put it that way, but if you look at the way I acted, it’s pretty clear. What if people didn’t recognize how smart I am? What if people saw me change my mind about something and realized that I’d been wrong before?

I wanted people to believe I was completely consistent. If I had once said something, I felt obligated to defend it, because admitting I’d been wrong might imply I could still be wrong about other things.

So I pretended I had things figured out, even when I felt foolish inside.

One of the things I discovered early was that I could use logical arguments to “prove” myself right. What’s more, a confident, articulate person can often make a less confident person look wrong — even when the other person might actually be right.

As long as someone was willing to be rational, I could usually debate almost anyone into submission. I was smarter than most, knew more than most, and — most importantly — I was supremely confident and never backed down.

I was a fool. I just didn’t know it yet. And my life was incredibly stressful.

I felt obligated to argue with everybody. Online, that usually meant politics. I couldn’t just explain my position and move on. I had to keep responding, even to people who were stubborn or obviously wrong. I was afraid that silence would look like defeat.

So arguments went on and on — not because I thought someone was going to change his mind, but because I needed to “win.”

It was the same in relationships. Once, in an argument with an ex-girlfriend, I realized midway through that she was right. But instead of admitting it, I danced around her points until she gave up. Technically I “won,” but only by exhausting her.

I won a lot of arguments when I still had that attitude, but I made myself look like a fool in a lot of ways.

I was constantly stressed that someone would think I wasn’t right. I realize now that it went back to growing up with a narcissistic father. Back then, I could be in trouble at almost any time just for being wrong about something. I was expected to be perfect — and I learned to wear the mask of perfection as a form of defense.

Today, I know I’m a fool. I know I’m an idiot. At least some of the time — often when I least expect it.

I’ve had to change my mind on so many things over the years that I’m no longer afraid of being wrong. That doesn’t mean I won’t defend what I believe is true, but I explain myself clearly — and then stop.

If someone genuinely wants to understand my point of view, I’ll help him or her to see things as I see them. But if a person just wants to argue — especially from a point of view that seems filled with obvious intellectual and moral errors — I break off as soon as I can.

Over the years, I’ve revised many beliefs — some publicly, some quietly. And I know there are more I’ll change in five years, 10 years or 20 years.

So I will present what I believe is rational and moral as clearly as I know how, but I’m very aware that I can be wrong. I’m even happy to admit it when time proves me wrong. And that’s OK with me.

It’s easier to avoid intellectual stress if you admit that you’re a fool. You don’t have to be so terrified about what other people think, even if your beliefs continue to be very different from what others believe.

Now that I see life this way, it’s easy for me to spot people who still act just the way I once did. Most of them aren’t as bright as they think they are. Most haven’t thought things through rationally. And they often argue things that make no sense, even from the point of view they claim to be defending. None of this bothers me in the way it used to — back when I thought I had to expose all of those obvious errors.

I still think I’m pretty smart. I still think I’m more willing than most to understand what I know and what I don’t know. I still think I’ve thought things through more clearly than most.

But I also know none of that means I’m always right. I recognize that I’ll sometimes be a fool — and I don’t mind admitting it.

Freedom from stress about possibly being wrong doesn’t come from being right all the time. It comes from no longer fearing to admit you’re a fool.

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If you have problems with high blood pressure, I’d like to encourage you to consider making serious changes to your diet. There might be some people who don’t have any choice but to start taking prescription medications for high blood pressure, but I’d like to tell you that I have completely eliminated my issue by eliminating all sugar and almost all carbohydrates. (A couple of months ago, my blood pressure hit 185/144, which was dangerously high — considered stage 3 hypertension.) By completely changing my eating habits, I’m down 22 pounds and my blood pressure is now in the “ideal” range — without taking any medication. In addition, I sleep better and I have more energy. Getting away from the sugar-laden mess that we generally refer to as “highly processed food” has been a life-changer for me. Now my challenge is to avoid slipping back into old habits — by eating in the dangerous ways that almost everyone in our society has come to see as normal.

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The late Steve Jobs was at the center of our culture’s transition from analog to digital. He co-founded Apple Computer. He led the team that revolutionized personal computing with the first Macintosh. As CEO of Apple, he led the development of the iPhone and later the iPad. You would think the children of such a man would be surrounded by technology. But Jobs and his wife Laureen didn’t let their children use iPads. Their home had few screens of any kind. Even though Jobs spent most of his time developing and selling Macs and iPhones and iPads, he was home with his wife and children for dinner when he was in town. The family ate together at a simple wooden table in their kitchen — and there were no digital devices or focus on popular culture. Instead, he’s said to have guided his family toward deep discussions of art, philosophy and education — with no iPads to be found. If the man who guided the development of such products chose a different path for his own children, does that suggest that his digital experience taught him that children need human connection, not screens? And does it suggest the possibility that we might be better off if we made the same choice for our families?

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