Wendy kept apologising every time she executed a manoeuvre incorrectly. She is a beginner sailor. If she could already handle the boat reliably, she would not need me as an instructor. She was guilty of nothing; the mistakes were part of learning.
When racing, I often respond to a crew member’s apology with: “Never make that mistake at the Olympic trials; in the meantime, we are only learning.”
It seems to me that most of us prefer to feel guilty rather than face the consequences of being guilty.
I notice people carrying guilt for things over which they have no control. I have felt guilty for my mother’s emotional distance, my husband’s unhappiness, and my being part of a team that delivered poor results because of dysfunction.
When I ask, What have I actually done? there is often no credible answer. Often my “guilt” is a feeling I’ve adopted, an over-responsibility.
We respect those who are courageous enough to acknowledge guilt for genuine mistakes: lashing out in anger, avoiding difficult conversations about risk, or neglecting to set clear goals and definitions of “done”.
Why do I avoid admitting guilt? Because acknowledging fallibility makes me vulnerable, and that is uncomfortable. Will I still be accepted; will I be credible?
In hindsight, denial is almost always an attempt to feel safe and keep status. It is easy to offer a quick “sorry” when stepping on someone’s toes in a shop. In politics, where power feels fragile, admitting fault is seen as too risky; there, denial has been refined into a dark art.
In the grist of everyday life, living with someone who never apologises systematically erodes my trust. Nevertheless, it falls to me to create space and grace for those in my life to be fallible, and to forgive when they ask. That honesty, paired with acceptance, builds trust.
By “guilt” I mean more than personal culpability. There is the horrible kind, when we witness or live alongside horrendous acts we did not cause, yet still feel stained by them.
Most of us prefer to skip acceptance, especially acceptance of guilt in any of its forms, by fleeing into distraction, denial, anger, self-righteousness, regret, or bitterness.
Acceptance looks different at each level: make amends where I am at fault; release what was never mine to carry; and, where horrors exist, turn witness into responsible action without pretending I caused what I did not.
Acceptance is the doorway to freedom: once I see things as they are, I can choose my next move with a clear head.
I am choosing to practise the art of acceptance, so I can move on rather than remain stuck in the hell of my own distractions.
How do you experience the tension between guilt and acceptance in your life or leadership?