A positive impact stems from our admission that we were wrong or

Host: The evening was still and heavy, filled with the smell of summer rain that had just passed. A soft haze lingered over the city rooftops, blurring the edges of the skyline like a half-remembered dream. In a quiet restaurant perched above the streets, two figures sat across from one another, separated by a single candle flame flickering between them.

Jack—his shirt collar undone, sleeves rolled up, eyes grey and sharp like smoke—stared into his untouched glass of wine. Across from him, Jeeny rested her chin on her hand, her dark hair spilling over her shoulder, her gaze steady, patient, and infinitely kind.

The air trembled with the unspoken tension of reflection—that fragile moment when truth approaches, uninvited but necessary.

Jeeny: “Richard DeVos once said, ‘A positive impact stems from our admission that we were wrong.’ It’s a simple line, but it cuts deep, doesn’t it? Two words—‘I’m wrong’—and the whole world softens.”

Jack: “Or it collapses.”

Jeeny: “Why do you say that?”

Jack: “Because admitting you’re wrong isn’t noble—it’s dangerous. It’s a crack in the armor, Jeeny. And in the world I live in, cracks get exploited. You say ‘I’m wrong’ once, and people remember it forever.”

Host: His voice was low, almost a growl, the sound of a man who had built his life on certainty and the fear of losing it. Jeeny didn’t flinch; she only leaned closer, the candlelight catching the faint shimmer in her eyes.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve spent a lifetime defending your armor.”

Jack: “Armor keeps you alive. You’ve never had a boardroom of wolves watching for your first mistake. They don’t want truth, they want blood. ‘I’m wrong’ is a confession that feeds them.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t it also what makes us human? The moment you say it, you stop pretending to be perfect. You start connecting.”

Jack: “Connecting doesn’t close deals.”

Jeeny: “It opens hearts. And hearts change the world more than deals ever have.”

Host: The rain outside began again, faintly—just a soft drumming on the glass. The candle swayed in the breeze. Jack looked away, his reflection flickering beside hers, as though two versions of himself sat at the same table—the man he was, and the man he could be.

Jack: “You make it sound so easy—to admit you’re wrong. But you don’t understand the cost.”

Jeeny: “Oh, I do. I once lost everything because I couldn’t say those words soon enough.”

Host: Her voice trembled, but she didn’t look down. Jack turned to her, surprised, as if he’d just realized that behind her calmness lived a field of scars.

Jack: “What happened?”

Jeeny: “Years ago, I worked for a non-profit project. I believed in my plan so much that I refused to listen to anyone who questioned it. I told myself they didn’t see the vision. But they were right—the plan was flawed, and it cost us everything we built. If I had just said ‘I’m wrong’ sooner, we could have saved it. Instead, I learned too late that pride is the most expensive teacher.”

Jack: “And yet here you are, still believing in humility.”

Jeeny: “Because that’s how I rebuilt myself. The moment I admitted my failure, people stopped resenting me—they started helping me. There’s something magnetic about honesty. It disarms even anger.”

Host: The flame between them flickered brighter for a moment, as if the air itself approved. Jack’s fingers tapped slowly against the table, his thoughts turning like slow gears.

Jack: “But what if saying ‘I’m wrong’ makes people lose respect for you?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe their respect wasn’t worth having. People who admire perfection fear truth. But people who admire growth—those are the ones who follow leaders, not idols.”

Jack: “Leaders…” He scoffed softly. “Funny. I’ve spent years telling my team to admit mistakes. Yet I’ve never once said those words myself.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why you’re here tonight.”

Host: Her voice carried no accusation, only gentle recognition. A small smile crossed her lips, the kind that heals rather than wounds. Jack’s eyes softened for the first time, the steel in them dulling to something human.

Jack: “You really believe that admitting you’re wrong makes you stronger?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it replaces the illusion of control with the truth of courage. Look at Abraham Lincoln—he was never afraid to admit when his decisions were wrong. He changed his mind publicly, and people respected him more for it. Or Nelson Mandela, who said his greatest strength was learning from his mistakes, not avoiding them.”

Jack: “You’re talking about legends. I’m just a man trying to survive.”

Jeeny: “Legends were just people who learned not to be imprisoned by their pride.”

Host: The rain grew louder now, washing the city in a rhythmic whisper. Jack leaned forward, his hands clasped, his expression weary yet contemplative.

Jack: “When you say you’re wrong, it’s not just words. It’s a surrender. It means letting go of being right, of being in control.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But in that surrender, you make space for something purer—understanding. Every ‘I’m wrong’ is an invitation for someone else to say, ‘It’s okay. Let’s fix it together.’”

Host: The clock ticked softly above them. For a long while, neither spoke. The sound of rain filled the space where ego used to live.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… my father once told me, ‘Never show weakness.’ He said the world respects strength, not apologies. I lived by that. Every decision I made was about proving him right.”

Jeeny: “And did it make you happy?”

Jack: “No. It made me successful.”

Jeeny: “But not fulfilled.”

Jack: “No.”

Host: The confession escaped him like a sigh years in the making. Jeeny’s eyes softened, and the room seemed to exhale with him.

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to prove him wrong.”

Jack: Quietly, almost to himself. “I’m wrong.”

Host: The words were soft—barely audible—but they carried the weight of a mountain shifting. For a moment, even the rain seemed to pause, listening. Jeeny’s smile was small, but radiant.

Jeeny: “See? The world didn’t end.”

Jack: “No. But something inside me did.”

Jeeny: “Good. That’s how new things grow.”

Host: The light from the candle danced between them, reflecting in the glass, in the rain, in the slow rhythm of forgiveness. The city lights outside began to blur into golden rivers, flowing down the windowpane.

Jack: “So maybe admitting I’m wrong isn’t weakness.”

Jeeny: “It’s strength wearing honesty.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s the real positive impact DeVos meant—not just on others, but on ourselves.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because when we humble ourselves, we stop trying to be perfect—and start trying to be real. And real people change the world.”

Host: The camera of the moment widened—rain, light, faces softened by truth. Jack leaned back, a faint smile ghosting his lips, as if tasting peace for the first time in years. Jeeny watched him, her eyes warm, her soul quiet.

Outside, the storm had passed, leaving behind a sky slowly clearing into stars.

The flame on their table burned steady now—no longer wavering, no longer fighting the wind. It simply was.

And between them, the two little words—I’m wrong—had done what pride never could: they had built a bridge strong enough to hold a heart.