Saturday Afternoon

It was the kind of embarrassment that doesn’t explode all at once—it blooms slowly, painfully, with no way to stop it.
I was in a small group, mid-conversation, feeling unusually confident. The topic shifted to something I thought I knew well. I leaned forward, animated, ready to contribute something thoughtful—maybe even insightful. Words came easily. Too easily.
I told a story. Gave context. Added detail. I spoke with certainty, the kind that invites nods and agreement.
Halfway through, I noticed the looks.
Not cruel. Not mocking. Just… confused.
Someone tilted their head. Another person opened their mouth, closed it, then gently said, “I don’t think that’s actually what happened.”
The room went quiet—not dramatically, just enough.
I laughed it off at first, assuming it was a misunderstanding. I doubled down slightly, clarified my point, and added more explanation. That’s when someone else softly corrected me. Then another. Facts surfaced. Dates. Names. The truth assembled itself in front of me, piece by piece, until there was no room left for my version.
I had been wrong.
Very wrong.
The heat rose fast—up my neck, into my face, behind my ears. My heart started beating louder than the conversation. I suddenly became aware of my hands, my posture, the sound of my own breathing. Every second stretched, heavy with the awareness that I had confidently occupied space I hadn’t earned.
I wanted to disappear—but…
I muttered something like, “Oh—wow, yeah, that’s on me,” and tried to shrink back into my chair without anyone noticing. My voice sounded smaller now. Careful. The conversation moved on, mercifully, but I stayed quiet, replaying the moment over and over in my head.
Later—hours later—it still echoed. Not just the mistake, but the confidence I’d had while making it. That was the sharpest part. Not that I was wrong, but that I hadn’t left room to be corrected.
It stuck with me longer than I expected.
Since then, I’ve noticed how differently I speak when I’m unsure. How often I pause now. How I listen a little longer before jumping in. The embarrassment didn’t teach me to be silent—it taught me to be humble.
And every now and then, when I feel that old confidence rising too fast, I remember the heat in my face, the quiet in the room, and the way certainty can turn on you without warning.
It’s not a lesson I enjoyed.
But it’s one I’ve never forgotten.