Issue 5: When We Get It Wrong

On making mistakes, feeling small, and finding our way back

I'm at a training this week, surrounded by healers, educators and and artists I respect. This morning at breakfast, I was sitting with a group of trainees, excited to share something I'd discovered. I pulled out my phone and played a YouTube clip, something I thought would spark conversation, maybe bring a moment of delight to our table, which it did.

The clip was too loud for the dining space. I was told off. It was inappropriate for the setting. People were trying to have quiet conversations. I was disrupting the peaceful morning atmosphere that others were clearly cherishing.

The correction came swiftly and publicly. I felt my face burn with embarrassment as I fumbled to turn off the phone, stammering apologies. In that moment, I felt incredibly small, like a child who had just been scolded for not understanding the rules everyone else seemed to know intuitively.

The shame was immediate and overwhelming. Not just at making the mistake, but at how oblivious I'd been to the social contract of the space. How could I have misjudged so completely?

The familiar sting of getting it wrong

We've all been there, haven't we? That moment when good intentions collide with poor execution, when our enthusiasm blinds us to our surroundings, when we inadvertently become the person everyone wishes would just... stop.

The physical sensation is always the same: the hot flush of embarrassment, the stomach drop of realisation, the urgent desire to disappear or, better yet, to rewind time and make a different choice entirely. But of course, we can't. The mistake has been made, witnessed, and now lives in the space between us and others.

What strikes me most about these moments isn't the mistake itself, we all make them, but how quickly we can shrink into ourselves. How rapidly our sense of worth can plummet based on a single moment of poor judgment. How we beat ourselves up. This is what the Buddha called a second arrow.

Nasruddin's Donkey Wisdom

This experience reminded me of a story about Nasruddin, the wise fool of Sufi tradition, that I've always found both funny and profound.

Nasruddin and his son were traveling with their donkey to the market. At first, they both walked alongside the animal while people pointed and laughed: "Look at those fools! They have a perfectly good donkey and they're walking!"

So Nasruddin's son climbed onto the donkey. But then people criticised them saying: "How shameful! The young boy rides while his elderly father walks!"

They switched places, but then the crowd complained: "What a terrible father! He rides in comfort while his poor son has to walk!"

Frustrated, they both climbed onto the donkey, only to hear: "Those cruel men! They'll break that poor animal's back!"

Finally, they both dismounted and walked again, carrying the donkey between them on a pole. The crowd roared with laughter: "Have you ever seen anything so ridiculous? They're carrying the donkey instead of riding it!"

When his son was red-faced with embarrassment from all the criticism, Nasruddin said gently: "Take note, my son. There's no pleasing everyone. No matter what we do, someone will find fault with it."

The Impossibility of universal approval

The story illuminates something crucial about the nature of mistakes and public disapproval: sometimes there simply isn't a "right" way to behave that will satisfy everyone. Sometimes we're criticised not because we're fundamentally wrong, but because we can't possibly meet all expectations simultaneously.

This doesn't excuse my breakfast disruption, I genuinely misjudged the situation, and the correction was fair. But it does offer perspective on the spiral of shame that followed. That burning sensation of "everyone thinks I'm terrible" might not be an accurate reflection of reality, but rather the echo of an impossible standard: the belief that we should never, ever get it wrong.

Nasruddin's wisdom suggests that the problem isn't making mistakes — it's expecting never to make them, and allowing the fear of criticism to paralyse us.

The Recovery Process

So how do we recover when we get it wrong? When we've inadvertently caused disruption, hurt feelings, or simply revealed our own obliviousness to the social currents around us?

First, we acknowledge the mistake without drowning in it. Yes, I misjudged the situation. Yes, I disrupted others' peace. No, this doesn't make me a fundamentally terrible person who should never participate in social situations again.

Second, we make whatever amends are possible. I apologised to the people at my table. Not elaborate, self-flagellating apologies.

Third, we learn what we can. In my case: read the room better, ask before playing audio in shared spaces, remember that not everyone shares my enthusiasm for spontaneous media-sharing.

And finally, perhaps most importantly we practice the radical act of forgiving ourselves. Being aware of the second arrow helps. We forgive ourselves not because the mistake didn't matter, but because carrying the shame indefinitely serves no one.

The Wisdom of Imperfection

There's something profoundly human about getting things wrong. It connects us to every person who has ever misjudged a situation, spoken out of turn, or enthusiastically shared something that fell flat. We are all apprentices in the art of being human, constantly learning the subtle rules of connection and community.

The people who corrected me this morning weren't trying to shame me they were trying to preserve something precious: the peaceful atmosphere that allows meaningful connection to flourish. Their feedback, though uncomfortable to receive, was an act of care for the collective experience.

And my mistake, embarrassing as it was, reminded me of something I sometimes forget in my role as an educator and storyteller: I'm still learning too. Still sometimes getting it wrong. Still figuring out how to move through the world with appropriate sensitivity to others' needs.

An invitation to gentle recovery

If you're reading this and remembering your own moments of public embarrassment, your own times of getting it spectacularly wrong, I offer you Nasrudin's wisdom: there is no pleasing everyone, and the attempt to do so will drive you mad.

What matters isn't avoiding all mistakes — it's learning to recover from them with grace. To apologise when appropriate, learn what we can, and resist the urge to shrink so small that we stop showing up altogether.

The breakfast incident will fade. The people involved will likely forget it by tomorrow. But the reminder to stay humble, stay teachable, and keep showing up even after we've stumbled that lesson has staying power.

Because here's what I know for certain: a world where no one ever makes mistakes would be a world where no one ever takes risks, shares spontaneously, or tries something new. And that would be a much poorer world indeed.

What mistakes have taught you the most about being human?

P.S.I'm curious about your own experiences with public embarrassment and recovery. Have you ever found wisdom in the moments when you got it most wrong? I'd love to hear about the mistakes that became your teachers.