The Seduction of Being Right

5 Jan

As part of my ongoing effort to use my free time like a grown adult—less mindless phone-scrolling, fewer true-crime podcasts whispering about dismemberment while I make coffee—I’ve been thinning out my podcast feed. Ruthlessly.

One survivor is hosted by a semi-well-known Buddhist who delivers short, focused talks on specific topics. I hadn’t listened in ages, so it was a pleasant surprise to discover that while my attention had drifted elsewhere, the podcast had continued churning out content with monk-like consistency. A whole year’s worth of six-to-ten-minute reflections sat there waiting. A buffet. I dove in.

I started with the most recent episode: a six-minute meditation on the fragile balance between being right and having inner peace.

Fair enough. That’s fertile ground. I’ve long been possessed by the imperious urge to be right. Not correct—right. There’s a difference.

A few days earlier, I was standing around with friends when one of them casually referred to Copenhagen as the capital of Sweden. I hesitated, briefly confused, then realised he meant Stockholm. I could’ve let it slide. I could’ve translated internally and moved on like a functioning human.

Instead, I said, “Wait—you said Copenhagen, but now you’re talking about Swedish culture.”

“Isn’t Copenhagen the capital of Sweden?” he asked.

“No,” I replied, far too quickly. “It’s Stockholm.”

The words were barely out of my mouth before the cringe hit. That familiar internal wince. The quiet recognition that I’d just performed a small, petty act of superiority. Another friend clocked it immediately and called me out—playfully, but precisely. Lesson received.

So yes, the podcast topic felt uncomfortably relevant.

The need to be “right” has long been one of my favourite character defects. I’ve leaned on it for quick hits of pride and self-esteem the way other people lean on sugar or nicotine. And like any drug, it never delivers for long. Being right is never enough. Once I’ve corrected someone, I feel compelled to reinforce it—belabour the point, sharpen the distinction, make sure the room knows who’s holding the chalk.

And just like drugs, the payoff evaporates almost instantly, leaving behind a faint residue of shame and the creeping suspicion that I’ve just made things worse.

So far, so good.

The host talked about how nobody is ever completely right or completely wrong, how we’re all flawed, partial, operating with incomplete information. Check. No objections there. I’m nodding along.

Then he shifted gears and started talking about what to do when someone presents an opinion that clashes with our own—something that doesn’t align with our values or lived experience.

Okay. Here we go. This is where we talk about boundaries. Restraint. Right speech. How to engage without turning every conversation into a cage match.

But instead, he suggested that in most cases, the best strategy is simply to hold your tongue.

That’s where my hackles went up.

Wait—so the practice here is silence? When faced with misinformation? Dishonesty? Harmful ideas? We just… swallow it?

I stayed with him, but my unease grew. Because taken far enough, this approach doesn’t encourage wisdom or compassion—it discourages honest exchange. And honest exchange is how people learn. It’s how I learn.

Yes, condescension is useless. Yes, preaching rarely changes minds. But opposing views—handled skillfully—create opportunities. Opportunities to speak without attachment. To express a perspective without needing to win. To articulate what we believe while accepting that the other person may never agree.

Explaining and defending my views has sharpened my thinking more times than I can count. I’ve been forced to re-examine assumptions, revise opinions, even admit I was wrong. That’s not ego—that’s growth.

Then the host took it one step further.

He suggested that in these situations, it’s okay to make things up.

I’m not exaggerating.

He proposed inventing a fictional third party to support your position. His example involved racism: rather than stating your own belief that all people deserve equal dignity and rights, he suggested saying you have a neighbour from a marginalised group whose experience directly contradicts the other person’s claim—even if that neighbour doesn’t exist.

At that point, I was out.

So much for right speech.

People don’t need to be perfect. God knows I’m not. But if I’m going to give someone my time, attention, and trust—especially under the banner of spiritual guidance—they’d better be reliable. Compassion that relies on dishonesty isn’t compassion. It’s theatre.

I unsubscribed.

Ironically, the episode still did its job. It reminded me how seductive being right can be—and how easily the pursuit of “peace” can slide into avoidance, self-erasure, or moral laziness. Silence isn’t wisdom if it’s rooted in fear. And truth doesn’t need to be shouted—but it does need to be true.

Inner peace isn’t about biting your tongue until it bleeds. It’s about speaking carefully, listening honestly, and knowing when your ego—not your values—is the one reaching for the microphone.

That, at least, is something I’m willing to keep practicing.