You Can Be Wrong. What A Bag of Dog Poop Can Teach Us About the Lost Art of Integrity.

Whatever happened to just saying, “Yeah… that one’s on me”?

I’ll skip the warm-up and get right to it: refusing to admit you were wrong is not strength. It’s insecurity wearing a blazer.

And now, a story about dog poop.

shit.

Each morning, my wife and I walk our new puppy, Penny, through our neighborhood. She’s a 45-pound Australian Shepherd who drops a rather impressive chocolate pyramid each outing. And as the gentleman that I am, I retrieve said deposit in a poop bag.

One day she did her business next to a neighbor’s trash can. I wrapped up the little gift, tied it tight, and tossed it in.

“Did you just throw your dog’s poop in my trash can?” a voice erupted from behind a fence.

Dang. It was the neighbor.

I had choices: deny it; admit it but play it off; run. Or admit it and take my lumps.

“Yeah, that was me,” I answered. “I guess I’m busted.”

“You know people do that all the time, and it really stinks up my trash!” He was pissed. And he had a right to be.

Some folks might ignore him. Some might flip him off. Some might apologize profusely and then curse him under their breath. I decided his outrage deserved acknowledgment.

“You’re right,” I said, probably surprising him. “It was disrespectful but intentional, and I promise you it won’t happen again.”

He didn’t know what to do with that. His temper subsided. His shoulders dropped.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Thanks.”

And I never did it again. Not in his trash. Not in anyone else’s. Only my own.

Because the real effort wasn’t in the apology. It was in what I did after. Which brings me to the next thought: feedback.

I once had a coach tell me, “There is no failure, only feedback.” That stuck. It’s been a steadying sail for years — a north star I try to navigate by.

So why the hell is it so hard? And why is it so rare?

Somewhere along the way — in business, politics, social media, dinner tables — we decided that admitting a mistake equals surrendering dignity. So instead of “I messed up,” we get:

• “That’s not what I meant.”

• “You misunderstood.”

• “It wasn’t that bad.”

• “Other people have done worse.”

• Or my favorite: “If anyone was offended…”

  
  

The classic non-apology apology.

I can’t stress enough the disdain I have for missing this very basic part of being human. This isn’t about losing an argument or keeping score. This is about character.

The first and most vital lesson I emphasize with my girls is integrity — being impeccable with your word. In short: when you’re wrong, own it.

But as I look around, I don’t see it practiced very often. That worries me. Not that my children will lose this quality — but that they’ll enter a world where integrity feels optional.

That can make for a lonely existence.

I find myself asking, constantly: What the hell is so wrong with being wrong?

The Real Cost of Never Being Wrong

The creators of Seinfeld - Larry David and Jerry himself - had one rule for writing the show:

“No hugging, no learning.”

In a sitcom, that’s hilarious. Nobody grows. Nobody reflects. Everyone just doubles down.

In real life? That’s a disaster.

When we refuse to admit mistakes:

• Trust erodes. People don’t lose faith because you messed up. They lose faith because you won’t own it.

• Conflict escalates. Resentment grows in the vacuum where accountability should be.

• Reputations suffer. The cover-up (or the spin job) usually causes more damage than the original mistake.

  
  

And yet, some people still believe projecting invincibility equals strength. That if you never blink, you win.

That’s not strength. That’s fear with a chaser. And in my opinion, it's stupid. We're not cavemen, and its time we recognize that humanity has the opportunity to put four million years of instinct to bed and use the brains we developed for something more.

Too many will double down on their unwillingness to practice integrity - this of course is being stuborn.

Stupid and stuborn is a dangerous combination.

Why Is It So Hard to Say “I Was Wrong”?

Let’s be honest. It’s not that we don’t know we’re wrong sometimes. It’s that admitting it feels like something bigger is at stake.

1. Ego and Identity

Most of us see ourselves as competent, moral, intelligent people. So when we screw up, it clashes with that self-image. Psychologists call it cognitive dissonance. I call it that awful internal “ugh” feeling.

Instead of saying, “I made a mistake,” we subconsciously turn it into, “I am a mistake.”

Those are very different things.

Being wrong about a decision doesn’t mean you are fundamentally flawed as a human being. But our brains don’t always separate the two in the moment.

So we rationalize. We minimize. We explain it away. We blame the intern.

2. Defense Mode

Rationalization and denial are natural defense mechanisms. Your brain is trying to protect you from discomfort. It’s basically emotional bubble wrap.

But if you wrap yourself up too much, you can’t move. You can’t grow. You can’t learn.

Short-term comfort. Long-term stagnation.

As one article in Psychology Today notes: we operate through three interconnected systems — thinking, emotional, and action-oriented. When they’re aligned with reality, we feel confident and steady. But when we’re wrong and reality shifts, that alignment cracks. The discomfort isn’t just ego — it’s internal misalignment. And for many people, that “coming unglued” feeling is intolerable, so they defend instead of adjust.

3. Power and “Looking Strong”

In some environments — corporate boardrooms, political arenas, high-stakes leadership roles — vulnerability is treated like a liability.

Admitting fault can feel like handing someone a weapon. So people posture. They dig in. They reframe.

But what they’re signaling isn’t strength. It’s fragility.

And that’s not what should be modeled by parents, leaders, or teachers. Real confidence can survive being wrong. Fragile confidence cannot.

The Plot Twist: Apologies Actually Work

This shouldn’t be controversial, but somehow it is: apologizing works. Not the lawyer-approved version.

A real apology:

• I was wrong.

• Here’s what I did.

• Here’s the impact.

• I’m sorry.

• I’ll do better. (See: dog poop story.)

  
  

Research out of Harvard shows sincere apologies reduce anger and increase the likelihood of reconciliation. In plain English: people calm down when you own it.

In business, leaders who take responsibility build credibility, not lose it. Teams don’t expect perfection. They expect honesty.

And on a human level? An apology says, “You matter more than my pride.” That’s not weakness. That’s emotional strength.

Anything less signals to me that you’re not interested in being better than your worst moment. And if we’re not striving to grow, adapt, stretch — what’s the point?

At some point, humanity has to grow beyond its primal wiring. We’re no longer fighting off predators on the savannah. We’re navigating boardrooms, communities, and complex systems. The same defensive instincts that once kept us alive now keep us stuck. If we’re not careful, we default to groupthink instead of growth — protecting the tribe’s ego instead of pursuing truth. Real evolution isn’t physical anymore. It’s psychological.

Here’s the Hard Truth

You will be wrong.

I will be wrong.

That’s not a character flaw. That’s a biological guarantee.

The question isn’t whether you’ll mess up. It’s what you’ll do five minutes after you realize you did.

Will you protect your image?Or protect the relationship?

Will you cling to pride?Or build trust?

The strongest leaders I’ve worked with — and the strongest humans I know — have a simple superpower: they can say, without theatrics and without collapse, “Yeah. That one’s on me.”

Four of those people are my children. No spiral. No drama. No over-explaining.

Just ownership. Hugging and learning.

And oddly enough? That’s when people trust them more.

So here’s my vote: let’s retire the myth that never being wrong is the goal.

Let’s normalize humility. Let’s make apologies boring again. Let’s treat growth like the win.

You can be wrong. You’ll survive.

And if you handle it right, you might earn more respect than if you’d been right in the first place.

And if you don’t believe me… just ask the guy with the empty trash can. We're here to take care of each other just as much as we take care of ourselves.

Turns out integrity, like dog poop, eventually surfaces.

The question is whether you pick it up.