The Courage to Change Your Mind
When was the last time you changed your mind about something that really mattered?
Not something trivial like what to have for dinner or whether that outfit you bought online was actually a good idea. I mean something you genuinely believed to be true?
Something you might even have argued passionately about. And then, somewhere along the way, you encountered a different perspective, learned something new or had an experience that made you question what you thought you knew.
What happened next?
Did you reconsider your position? Or did you find yourself searching for reasons why you were right all along?
I ask because I've been thinking a lot about the courage it takes to change our minds. And I do think it takes courage.
We live in a world where certainty is often mistaken for strength. We admire people who stand firm, defend their positions and refuse to back down. But I've been wondering whether we've got something fundamentally wrong about what strength looks like.
What if the ability to say, "Actually, I hadn't thought about it that way before" is one of the greatest demonstrations of confidence and leadership?
Why changing our minds can feel so uncomfortable
Here's the thing. Our beliefs aren't simply a collection of opinions floating around in our heads. They're often deeply connected to our identity, our values, our experiences and our understanding of the world.
When someone challenges a belief we hold, it can feel as though they're challenging who we are. Psychologists describe some of the discomfort that arises when we encounter information that conflicts with our existing beliefs as cognitive dissonance.
And our brains don't particularly enjoy that discomfort.
So we find ways to reduce it.
We might dismiss the new information, question the credibility of the person presenting it or seek out evidence that confirms what we already believe.
This last tendency is known as confirmation bias. And we're all susceptible to it.
(Yes, even those of us who consider ourselves open-minded, reflective and committed to learning!) Perhaps especially us, because we can become rather attached to the idea that we're the sort of people who already know better. But here's where it gets particularly interesting. Sometimes the barrier to changing our minds isn't a lack of evidence or understanding. It's the emotional cost of acknowledging that we might have been wrong.
When shame enters the conversation
Imagine you've said something that someone else experiences as discriminatory.
They challenge you.
You hadn't intended to cause harm. In fact, you consider yourself someone who genuinely values fairness and inclusion.
Suddenly, there's a gap between how you see yourself and how someone else has experienced your behaviour. That can be deeply uncomfortable.
You might feel embarrassed, guilty or ashamed.
And those feelings can quickly become the focus of your attention.
Instead of listening to what the other person is saying, you find yourself defending your intentions.
"But that's not what I meant."
"I would never deliberately offend anyone."
"That's not who I am."
Sound familiar?
I've encountered variations of these responses many times in my work. And I understand why they happen. Nobody particularly enjoys being confronted with the possibility that their behaviour has caused harm. But there's an important distinction to make here.
Guilt can sometimes motivate us to reflect on something we've done and consider how to repair the harm.
Shame, particularly when it becomes tied to our sense of identity, can leave us feeling that there is something fundamentally wrong with who we are. (There is some interesting research done by David Hawkins in his book 'Power vs Force' for those who want to geek out on the science behind these emotions).
Because when we feel personally threatened, defensiveness can become a very tempting escape route. The problem is that while we're busy protecting our identity, we may stop listening to the very information that could help us grow. So perhaps the first act of courage isn't changing our minds at all. Perhaps it's being willing to sit with the discomfort of not knowing whether we're right.
Curiosity is a powerful alternative to defensiveness
One of the things I encourage people to practise in my work is curiosity. One of m favourite expressions is 'More curious, less furious!'
Not performative curiosity, where we ask questions simply to find holes in someone else's argument. Genuine curiosity. The kind that requires us to accept that our understanding of the world is incomplete.
When someone challenges our thinking, what might happen if we resisted the urge to respond immediately? What if we asked ourselves:
What am I reacting to here?
Am I feeling challenged because this information is genuinely inaccurate, or because it conflicts with something I believe about myself?
What might this person know or have experienced that I haven't?
And what would I need to understand before deciding whether to change my position?
These questions don't require us to agree with the other person. They simply create some space between the emotional reaction and the response. And sometimes that space is where learning happens.
Of course curiosity also requires discernment. Not every opinion deserves equal weight, and not every challenge is made in good faith. But we can be open to learning without abandoning our ability to think critically. In fact, I would argue that the two should go hand in hand.
Changing your mind doesn't mean abandoning your values
This is an important distinction, particularly when we're talking about inclusion, equity and social justice. There are some principles I hold very firmly. I believe people should be treated with dignity and respect. I believe discrimination and injustice should be challenged.
And I believe that everyone deserves opportunities to participate, contribute and thrive.
I'm not interested in reconsidering whether racism is acceptable, for example, simply because someone presents a different opinion. But I am willing to reconsider my understanding of how racism operates, how people experience it and which approaches are most effective in addressing it. There's a difference.
Our values can provide a foundation while our understanding continues to evolve.
We can remain committed to justice while recognising that we don't have all the answers about how to achieve it.
And we can hold strong convictions without becoming so rigid that we're unable to recognise when something needs to change. For me, that's a crucial part of inclusive leadership, because leadership isn't simply about knowing what you believe.
It's about being willing to examine how those beliefs influence your decisions, your relationships and the experiences of the people around you.
What does courage actually look like?
I don't think courage always looks like a grand declaration or a dramatic change of position.
Sometimes it's much quieter than that.
It's listening to someone describe an experience you don't recognise and resisting the temptation to dismiss it.
It's acknowledging that a policy you championed hasn't worked as intended.
It's recognising that your understanding of a particular issue was incomplete.
It's apologising without immediately explaining why you didn't mean to cause harm.
It's being able to say, "I need to think about that."
And occasionally, it's having the humility to say, "You were right. I've changed my mind."
None of these things requires us to diminish ourselves. In fact, I think they demonstrate a level of confidence that defensiveness rarely achieves. Because when we're secure enough in our values to question our assumptions, we no longer have to treat every disagreement as a threat. We can see it as an opportunity to understand something more deeply.
Creating cultures where people can change their minds
There's an organisational dimension to all of this too. We often talk about the importance of creating psychologically safe environments where people feel able to speak up, ask questions and challenge decisions. But how often do we create environments where people feel able to change their minds?
Think about the leader who publicly commits to a particular course of action. New evidence emerges suggesting that a different approach might be better.
What happens if they change direction? Are they praised for responding thoughtfully to new information or criticised for being inconsistent, indecisive or weak? And what message does that send to everyone else?
If we want people to demonstrate intellectual humility, we need to create cultures where acknowledging uncertainty isn't automatically interpreted as incompetence. Where learning is valued more highly than saving face. Where people can admit mistakes without being humiliated. And where changing our minds in response to credible evidence is recognised as a strength.
That doesn't mean removing accountability, quite the opposite, accountability requires us to take responsibility for our decisions, including the responsibility to reconsider them when circumstances or our understanding change.
I think that's something worth reflecting on, particularly for those of us in leadership positions.
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