We all want to be right. It feels good in the moment. But what if the very thing we’re gripping so tightly—our version of “right”—is quietly costing us the things that matter most: peace, time, and the people we love?
Here’s what I’ve learned the hard way: “Right” is almost never absolute. It’s a matter of perspective. And our beliefs shape that perspective. That perspective then becomes the lens through which we see everything—our relationships, our circumstances, even ourselves.
I look at the world through a biblical lens. I study God’s Word every single day, without exception. It’s not a religious checkbox for me; it’s how I try to see clearly when my emotions or my pride want to distort the picture. But whether your lens is faith-based or not, the principle is the same: You can insist on being right according to your current view… or you can choose to be happy by being willing to shift how you see things.
A few weeks ago, that truth came rushing back during a cardio session with my client and good friend Wendi.
Wendi is in her late twenties. Her brother is roughly the same age—early thirties—with a young son of his own. Their parents have been divorced for years. Wendi’s relationship with her mom while she was growing up was full of hurt and baggage. Her brother’s pain is different but just as real: he’s deeply frustrated with their dad for not being more present in his life and especially for not pouring love and attention into his grandson the way he longs for.
The frustration is mostly flowing in one direction—son toward dad. From what Wendi shared, it sounds like her dad may be somewhat oblivious, just living his life the way he always has. Passive personalities often don’t realize how much their lack of initiative is hurting the people they love.
Wendi looked at me during our workout and asked, “What do I tell my brother?”
I smiled and said, “You threw me a softball. I’ve lived this.”
Years ago, I carried the same kind of frustration with my own dad. It wasn’t about a grandson—it was about feeling unseen. My dad (and my stepdad, for that matter) never once asked me about the thing that has been my passion since I was fifteen: strength training. Not in my teens, not in my twenties, not even in my forties and fifties when it became my career. They never took a real interest in what mattered most to me. Conversations stayed surface-level.
I knew they loved me. They had proven it over decades. But that one missing piece—“Hey son, how’s your training going?”—hurt more than I wanted to admit. And because I let that hurt shape my perspective, I made a decision I still regret.
In 2010, on Memorial Day, I discovered my grandmother was showing obvious signs of cognitive decline. I called my dad. In short order, he moved her from Deep East Texas up to northeast Oklahoma to be with him and his wife. By Christmas of that same year, I had a chance to go see them. I had planned to. But work got in the way—and if I’m honest, my wounded perspective gave me permission to let it. I told myself I was too busy.
I didn’t see my grandmother again until shortly before Christmas in 2011. She passed away in February of 2012. I lost roughly one and a half years’ worth of opportunities to go visit with her because I was nursing a grievance instead of choosing presence.
Several voices eventually helped shift my lens.
My pastor lost his dad tragically when he was young. A high school friend lost his dad to a heart attack while we were still teenagers. Jeffrey Gitomer, a mentor I’ve followed for years, did a YouTube tribute to his dad that still makes me cry every time I watch it. Darren Hardy, another longtime influence, was raised by his dad after his mom left when he was very young; when his dad passed, it gutted him.
Listening to these men, I realized I was whining about something small compared to what they had lost. I was fixated on the speck in my dad’s eyes—the fact that they never asked about my training—while ignoring the beam of good they had given me: they raised me, provided for me, and loved me in the ways they knew how.
That’s when two principles landed with force.
John Maxwell teaches what I call the 101% principle: If you can find even 1% positive in a person or relationship, give 100% of your focus to that 1%. Drown out the rest. Jim Rohn used the old fable of two wolves warring inside us—the good wolf and the bad wolf. The one that wins is the one you feed. From a biblical perspective, that “bad wolf” is the sin nature we all carry since the Garden. But we can starve it by feeding the good—by choosing gratitude, forgiveness, and focus on what is noble and true, as it’s so beautifully directed in Philippians 4:8:
Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.
I stopped feeding the grievance. I let it go. Not because my dads suddenly changed (leopards don’t change their spots), but because I changed. I decided their lack of curiosity about my world was their limitation, not my identity. I had plenty of other people—clients, friends like Wendi—who were genuinely interested in what I was building.
The turning point was a visit right before Christmas of 2011. I went to see my grandmother while I still could and to spend time with my Dad and his wife. Nothing dramatic was said. No big apology or confrontation. I just showed up. It was a reset. After that weekend, I made a commitment: every week after church, I would call my dad. The ritual is simple—church, grocery store, then the call. He tells me about whatever NASCAR race is happening that week, and I listen. Because I love him, and he loves talking about it. We’ve been doing that for years now. It’s carved in stone.
Last fall, he started experiencing some obvious cognitive decline. And while they haven’t shared a formal diagnosis, he has started taking meds to slow the progression. The cognitive decline is real, and it scares me out of my mind to think he might follow in my grandmother’s path. Every one of those weekly calls has become even more precious. I don’t have forever with him. Neither does Wendi’s brother have forever with their dad.
When I shared all of this with Wendi that morning on the cardio machines, I told her the truth: Her brother has a choice.
He can confront his dad honestly—“Dad, it hurts that you’re not more involved with your grandson. I wish you’d take more interest.” There’s nothing wrong with that conversation. In fact, one of my best and longtime clients (who started with me right after the pandemic) once told me I should have done exactly that with my own dad years ago. She was right. I was too conflict-avoidant back then. I wish I’d had her voice in my ear sixteen years ago.
But confrontation alone isn’t the whole answer. The deeper work—and the one that actually brings freedom—is internal. Her brother can choose to shift his own perspective. He can stop feeding the grievance wolf and start feeding the good one. He can focus on whatever positives exist in his dad, extend the blanket of forgiveness Jesus talked about (seventy times seven), and refuse to let a root of bitterness take hold.
My pastor has said it powerfully: bitterness is an acid that will eat its own container. It will destroy you from the inside long before it ever touches the person you’re bitter toward.
Time is too short for relationships that are constantly strained by “I’m right, and you’re wrong.” Wendi’s brother is younger; his dad is younger. But none of us know what next week holds. A health crisis, an accident, or simply the slow march of time can change everything in an instant.
The healthiest path is usually a blend: Speak honestly if the relationship can bear it, but hold your peace no matter how he responds. Don’t let his answer—or lack of one—become permission to stay bitter. Make the most of whatever relationship exists. Be strategic about creating time together if possible. And above all, choose the lens that leads to life instead of the one that leads to slow, internal death.
I still sometimes wish my dad would ask me about my training or my writing. But it doesn’t own me anymore. It’s okay. I have other people in my life who do ask, and that’s enough. I get to enjoy my dad for who he is instead of resenting him for who he isn’t.
So here’s the question I want to leave you with:
Where in your life are you choosing “right” over happy? What belief or old hurt is shaping the lens you’re looking through right now? What would happen if you fed the good wolf instead—if you gave 100% of your focus to the 1% positive and let the rest go?
You don’t have to stay stuck. The same grace that met me on that Christmas visit in 2011 is available to you today. Choose the perspective that brings peace. Choose the lens that protects your relationships while you still have time.
Because in the end, you really can be right… or you can be happy.
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