There's something exhausting about arguing. Not about speaking, but about defending each word. That tension of holding an idea as if our entire being were at stake. We live in an age where everyone opines, corrects, quotes, and retorts. Where listening seems like an awkward pause.

But there comes a moment—sometimes after many attempts—when one discovers the beauty of not being right. And not because the other person is right, but because there's no longer a need to decide who wins.

Being wrong isn't giving up; it's shifting your focus. Moving from wanting to be right to wanting peace. From the urgency of convincing to the curiosity to understand. Sometimes, understanding others means recognizing that, even if we see them as wrong, their way of seeing the world also makes sense from where they stand. And then you realize that truth isn't a rock: it's a way of looking.

Voltaire wrote:

“Doubting is uncomfortable, but being certain is ridiculous.”

Perhaps true intelligence lies there: in the ability to doubt without getting lost, to converse without attacking, to listen without planning a response.

Understanding the other doesn't mean agreeing, but rather ceasing to argue with the universe. Because even our most firmly held certainty can ultimately be one version among many. Letting go of it doesn't impoverish us, it lightens us.

There's something profoundly elegant about accepting that we can be wrong. And something even wiser about not needing to prove we're right. Sometimes, what separates us isn't the idea, but the tone. And when the tone lowers, understanding rises.

The beauty of not being right lies in that inner truce: in being able to leave a conversation without feeling like we've lost anything. In looking at the other person and thinking: maybe we both share a part of the story, and that's enough.

Because the real achievement is not being right: it is coming out of the dialogue with a calm heart.