On Being Corrected

When I correct you, I want to watch what you do next. Not the excuse. Not the explanation of what you meant. What you do.

Most people hear a correction as an accusation, and they rush to defend themselves. You will not. You will hear it as attention. I noticed. I cared enough to say so. That is not a punishment. It is a gift, and gifts are received in silence, or with thanks.

So when I tell you that something was not right, you will stop. You will look at me. You will say: yes. Then you will do it again, properly, while I watch. That is the whole of it.

Do not sulk. Do not apologise three times over until I have to comfort you. One apology is enough, if it is needed at all. After that, the only thing that matters is the next attempt.

You may find that you start to want my corrections. That you do things carefully not to avoid them, but because you know I am looking closely enough to notice the difference. Good. That is exactly where I want you.

And when I correct you in front of no one at all, in a message, in a single line, treat it exactly the same. The distance does not make it smaller. If anything it asks more of you, because no one is there to see whether you obey except you, and me, later, when I look.

Be corrected well, and you will need correcting less. That is how I know you were listening.