The Fight to be Right
What happens when someone's need to be “right” costs more than they realize?
Some people enter a room like they own the air. Not out of malice, necessarily, but out of habit. A habit forged over years, by being the only sister, the one who spoke loudest, or the one no one dared to correct.
These habits turn into armor. And sometimes that armor becomes a weapon used to control what doesn’t belong to them. Used to assert, correct, and override. To be a matriarch over all situations, fighting for a thrown that isn’t even there. All in the name of being “right”.
I’ve learned that there are people who need to be right more than they need to be kind. More than they need to be respectful. More than they need to listen.
When their need to be right intersects with a sense of entitlement or fear, it can do damage. Real damage. Not just to relationships, but to living beings caught in the middle. To trust. To intuition. To the fragile things that were quietly healing, becoming whole again, without their interference.
I write this because recently, someone stepped into several situations where they weren’t invited. Suggesting things. Controlling things. Making waves, when waves weren’t needed. One such situation was very personal to me. One where their certainty dismissed my connection, my care, my lived experience with one of my cats. They took it upon themselves to act, without asking, without informing, without including. The result was heartbreaking. Irreversible. And costly in more ways than one.
I’ve cried. I’ve raged in silence. I’ve asked God, Why does this keep happening? Why do people like this get to override those of us who move with gentleness, with discernment, with love? Why does she get to do the same thing over and over again without repercussions? Without learning lessons from the disasters she leaves in her wake? Why is she not affected?
The answer I keep receiving is this: Because the lesson is not theirs. It’s mine.
Seems unfair, right? But it’s true. The lesson is in how I respond. How I rise, not with fire, but with clarity. How I hold my ground, not in spite, but in sacred truth.
It’s easy to spiritualize away our boundaries. To forgive before we’ve even named the wound. To surrender when what’s really needed is a line drawn in light. Because sometimes the most spiritual act is not letting go. It’s speaking up. It’s saying: This is mine to tend. You don’t get to take over. You don’t get to bully me.
Mr. Boots will adjust. Animals are like that, they find their balance again, even when the ground shifts beneath them. And I will, too. But I will not forget. Not because I’m bitter. But because I am becoming.
This time, I am becoming someone who listens to herself first. Who trusts her knowing. Who no longer allows fear, dressed up as “family duty,” make decisions.
Who will never again let someone’s need to be right cost so much. And most importantly, someone who stand in her truth and understands that love isn’t always soft. Sometimes, it’s strong enough to say enough.
Know this, sometimes, the most powerful wisdom is not in being right, but in being true.