Okay, let’s be real for a second. Look at that image. “Admitting that you fucked up or was wrong is the realest shit ever.”
I saw this and felt attacked. I felt seen, sure, but mostly attacked.
If you’ve been following Stories from Tina for a while, you know a few things about me. You know I’m a nurse, which means I spend 12 hours a day making critical decisions and acting like I have everything under control. You know I’m a mom, which means I spend the other 12 hours trying to keep tiny humans alive and reasonably well-adjusted. And, perhaps most importantly for this conversation, you know I am a Leo.
We Leos? We don’t “do” wrong. We do “passionate interpretations of the truth.” We do “well, I wouldn’t have yelled if you hadn’t breathed that way.” But straight-up looking someone in the eye and saying, “I was incorrect, and my behavior was trash”? That physically hurts. It’s like trying to swallow a dry pill without water while someone is staring at you.
But here is the thing: Being an adult (and I’m 33 now, so I guess I officially count) is basically just a series of realizing you were wrong about something, apologizing, and then hoping you don’t do it again before you’ve had your morning coffee.
It usually starts small. Maybe it’s a fight with Mo. My husband is a saint, truly, but the man knows exactly which buttons to push to turn me from “loving wife” to “litigator in a courtroom drama.”
Let’s say I’m convinced I told him about a plan. I remember saying it. I can see the movie in my head where I said, “Babe, remember we have that thing on Saturday.”
He says I didn’t.
I double down. I triple down. I bring up receipts from 2019. I bring up the time he forgot the milk. I am winning this argument. I am the Champion of Being Right.
And then… I check my texts. Or I check the calendar. Or I just have that sinking, cold-water feeling in my gut where I realize: Oh no. I never told him.
This is the crossroads, friends. This is where the “Realest Shit Ever” comes into play.
Option A: Gaslight him. (Kidding! Mostly.)
Option B: Change the subject to something he did wrong so we end up in a draw.
Option C: Take a deep breath, lower the Leo mane, and say the words.
Why Is It So Hard?
I think it’s because, especially as women, and especially as moms and professionals, we feel like we have to be perfect. In nursing, if I make a mistake, it’s a big deal. It’s charts, it’s meds, it’s patient safety. I am trained to be precise. So when I come home, that armor is still on. admitting I messed up feels like a crack in the foundation.
But I look at my kids, Noah and my daughter. I’m constantly telling them, “Own your actions. Say you’re sorry. Fix it.”
How can I tell them to be accountable if I’m walking around acting like I’m the Pope of Eastvale, infallible and supreme?
I’ve learned that accountability doesn’t always have to be a somber, tearful confession. Sometimes it’s just looking at the other person and saying, “Wow, I was acting like a total psycho earlier. That was on me. I was hungry/tired/overwhelmed, but that’s not an excuse. I’m sorry.”
And sometimes, accountability looks like bribery. It looks like bringing Mo a coffee without him asking. It looks like sending a funny meme to the group chat after I’ve been a ghost for three weeks because life got too heavy.
The image says it’s the “realest shit ever” because it strips away the ego. It’s naked vulnerability. When you say “I fucked up,” you are handing the other person the power. You are saying, I am flawed, and I trust you to handle my flaws with grace.
Whatever you’re going through—whether it’s friendship drama (don’t even get me started), marriage friction, or just snapping at a coworker because the shift has been from hell—try the accountability route.
It burns going down. It stings the ego. But the relief you feel afterwards? That lightness? It’s better than the best iced coffee on a hot day.
So, here is to us. The messy, loud, occasionally wrong, but always trying queens. We messed up. We’re sorry. Now, let’s move on.
(P.S. If Mo is reading this: I’m still right about the dishwasher loading. That is the one hill I will die on. Love you, mean it.)