On Small Mistakes

You make small mistakes all the time. You forget a detail I asked for, you answer a little late, you get a word wrong. And every time, you treat it as though the whole thing between us might break. It will not. I am not that fragile, and neither is what we have.

What I watch is not the mistake. It is what you do in the minute after it. Some men hide it and hope I did not notice. Some men apologise so much that the apology becomes the thing I have to deal with. Neither of those is what I want.

When you get something small wrong, tell me plainly. Say what happened and what you will do differently. Then stop. Do not decorate it, do not punish yourself in front of me, and do not wait for me to tell you it is all right. I will tell you if it is not.

There is a kind of man who believes that being good means never slipping. He spends so much effort trying to be perfect that he has nothing left over for paying attention. I would rather have you attentive and occasionally wrong than flawless and absent.

The small mistakes also tell me something useful. They show me where your attention goes when you are tired, or distracted, or nervous. That is worth knowing. A mistake you show me is information. A mistake you hide is a small lie.

So the next time you get something wrong, notice the urge to cover it, and do the harder thing instead. Bring it to me, say it simply, and let it go. You will find it is far lighter to carry once it has been said out loud.