How to build trust by saying “I don’t know”

I’m 17, ankle-deep in a muddy pitch, and screaming at the referee. I should note that he is a fully grown adult and technically outranks me. This cotton-headed ninny muggins has waved play on when I’m certain — certain — it was a foul, a hacking, and this incompetent fool is allowing murder in broad daylight. I won’t stand for it. I’m giving him the full benefit of my opinion on his eyesight, his understanding of the rules, how his dog does not truly love him, and I’m questioning not only his character but that of his entire lineage.

I did this a lot. I should have collected hundreds of yellow cards purely for talking back (I collected a healthy number as it is). But then, every so often in the middle of one of my blow-ups, a ref would do the one thing to completely defuse my tirade. He’d turn to me and say, “Yeah, messed that one up.”

Anger immediately gone. Frustration nowhere to be seen. Grace given. Bless you, sir. Thank you, sir.

I couldn’t stay mad at someone who’d just acknowledged and owned their fault. The admission of a mistake in one second achieved what none of my teammates pulling at my sleeves, coaches holding me back, or good sense could.

This is rare in the everyday world. How often, at home or at work, do you see the metaphorical hand raise “my bad”? You rarely hear a leader say “I don’t know,” or “that was my call, and I got it wrong.” We often reward a confident take, the person with the answer, the one who never flinches. (Here, we have yet to embrace the default posture of my adopted second home, Australia, to “take the piss,” which helps keep people humble). So people climb the ladder by learning never to get caught not knowing the answer.

There is something to learn from the humble refs I encountered (and tormented). Because every time someone stands up, on a real stage or a metaphorical one, and owns a miss, something magical happens. They gain trust. They gain respect. They gain far more than they lose.

Why is saying “I don’t know” so hard?

Adam Grant, a leading organizational psychologist, believes it comes down to the fact that we link our opinions to our identity. I believe x, therefore I am x. My views on climate change are me. My position on return to office is my personality (please no). It is perfectly acceptable to hold strong views, but at some point in your journey, being wrong stops feeling like new information and starts feeling like a threat to who you are. Therein lies the problem because I am willing to bet that you are not the type of person who self-identifies as a dumbass. So you defend. You dig in. You do anything not to be “wrong,” lawyering the evidence to support not appearing to be a silly goose. But you’ve mistaken a belief for an identity, and by refusing to admit mistakes, you cannot update the views you hold to account for new, better information. You are stuck. You also look like an ass.

This gets worse the smarter you are. The sharper your mind, the more creative lines you can draw to justify your reasons, even if it means the final product starts to look like some of our particularly egregious gerrymandered voting districts.

There are two modes we can occupy here, according to Julia Galef, author of The Scout Mindset. The first is less helpful than the second. A soldier defends the territory and attacks whatever threatens it. Meanwhile, a scout heads out, sees what’s actually there, and draws an honest map. The soldier needs to be right. The scout needs to know what’s true. Admitting you were wrong only feels like a defeat if your ego is more important than what’s useful. Stings to admit, hurts to feel, and ultimately serves you and those around you in the long run. Be a scout.

Your fear that owning a mistake will make you look weak is also backwards. People higher in intellectual humility learn more, recover faster from setbacks, and tend to be trusted more by the people around them. Not a bad result for being willing to admit where your knowledge stops. (Note: There are toxic places and people, at work and at home, where this honesty gets punished. Those people, quite frankly, suck. And they exist, so exercise caution as they require different gloves.)

How do you build this muscle?

Start where you don’t know. Somebody asks your opinion about a conflict, politics, a trade by a sports team, or what the company should do in Q4. “I don’t know.” It is OK not to always have an answer.

A harder rep assumes you have examples of where you might have messed up (bold of me, I know). In those moments, here’s your script: “I was wrong.” Own the miss. That’s it.

If you want to graduate to the 301 level, when you do have a view, put a percentage to capture your confidence levels: “I’m about 70% on this. Here’s what’s informing that, and here are two ways it could go wrong.” While 100% certainty sounds strong in the moment, it is misplaced. A person who can name their odds, their doubts, and their own misgivings about where this could go off the rails is a person people believe, trust, and follow.

Underneath all three of these moves is one question: Are you willing to be wrong? On your most deeply held, sacred beliefs, are you willing to consider that you could be completely and utterly incorrect? That’s a private conversation between you and you, but if you find yourself digging in or feeling righteous certainty, I invite you to join me in curiosity.

The question I use to check myself: What would actually change my mind here? If the honest answer is nothing, I’ve stopped being a scout. If you can instead hold your opinions as your best current guess, you learn more that way. And people can tell you’re not full of yourself. Those are both nice things.

If you lead, this matters more. Saying “I don’t know” out loud gives everyone else permission to stop pretending. Amy Edmondson’s research shows that groups do not automatically become psychologically safe — a feature of high-performing teams — because a leader announces that it’s safe. Rather, teams are more likely to feel psychologically safe when the leader goes first to publicly role model what not knowing looks like. That gives everyone else permission.

The people who can never say “I was wrong” don’t stop being wrong. They just stop finding out. The refs who owned it, and everyone since who has done the same, got my grace every single time. I never respected them less for it. I respected them more.

Where is the next place you can admit “I don’t know”?

This article How to build trust by saying “I don’t know” is featured on Big Think.