Another very strong image from the first day was giving my

The words of William Scranton strike with the humility of a man who has been chastened by truth: “Another very strong image from the first day was giving my initial press conference in the morning—going down and finding out that everything I had said, the essence of what I had said, was wrong.” In them lies a profound lesson about leadership, fallibility, and the courage to continue even after misstep. For no one who takes upon themselves the burden of public life escapes error; yet the measure of greatness is not in avoiding mistakes, but in how one responds when they are revealed.

He begins by naming the first day, a time when expectations are highest and nerves are sharpest. To falter at the very beginning can feel like catastrophe. Yet here is Scranton, confessing that the essence of what he said was wrong. This is not only an admission of error, but a testament to the weight of responsibility: words spoken in public are not easily withdrawn, and when they mislead, even unintentionally, the soul of the speaker bears the shame. His memory of that moment endured because it was seared into him like fire—the reminder that truth cannot be bent without consequence.

The ancients knew this lesson well. The Greeks held Parrhesia, the virtue of speaking with frankness, as one of the highest duties of citizenship. A man who spoke wrongly in the Assembly could bring disaster to the city, and the weight of such error could outlive him. Similarly, the Romans expected their consuls and generals to admit error with dignity, for to cling to pride when proven wrong was to invite ruin. Scranton’s words echo this tradition: honesty about failure is a mark of integrity, not weakness.

History offers a vivid parallel in the tale of Abraham Lincoln during the Civil War. In 1862, after a disastrous battle, he admitted before the nation that he had misjudged both timing and command. Yet rather than conceal his error, he spoke openly of it, and in that openness, he won greater trust. Like Scranton, he showed that leadership is not about perfection, but about the strength to acknowledge imperfection while pressing onward.

What Scranton faced was also the clash between expectation and reality. Leaders often step forward with ideas shaped in private, only to find that the world is harsher, more complex, less forgiving. The discovery that one’s words are wrong is the discovery that theory alone cannot guide action. Reality humbles, and humility teaches. To be wrong at first is to be reminded that truth requires constant learning, not one triumphant declaration.

From this moment, we draw a lesson for ourselves: do not fear being proven wrong. Fear instead the stubbornness that refuses correction. The shame of error is brief, but the shame of pride lasts forever. Those who admit their mistakes not only grow wiser themselves, but also inspire others to trust them more deeply. For people do not demand that leaders be flawless—they demand that they be honest.

Therefore, children of the future, remember this teaching: in your first days, in your early trials, you too may falter. You may speak wrongly, act rashly, or misjudge. Do not despair. Acknowledge the mistake, learn swiftly, and move forward with renewed clarity. For in truth, it is not the absence of error that defines greatness, but the courage to turn error into wisdom.

Thus, William Scranton’s memory of his first press conference becomes more than a personal recollection. It is a teaching passed down: to admit when you are wrong is to become more right than those who never confess their failings. In this humility lies the seed of true leadership, and in this humility lies the path to enduring strength.