The Day I Stopped Being Right

The message appeared in the company group chat for everyone to see.

"These last-minute requests are creating unnecessary problems for our team."

My face burned as I stared at the screen.

Just six months earlier, I had earned a PhD in life sciences and landed a project manager role at a pharmaceutical company. I was proud of how far I'd come and eager to prove myself.

But in that moment, none of my degrees mattered.

I felt humiliated.

The criticism came from the lead of our technical team. From my perspective, it was unfair. I wasn't the one making the decisions. My supervisor, Tong, had insisted we handle technical work ourselves rather than seek support early in the project.

When the work became too complex, I was sent at the last minute to ask the technical team for help.

Again.

And again.

Eventually, their frustration boiled over—and I became the face of the problem.

Although I apologized professionally, inside I was angry. I blamed Tong for putting me in that position.

Over the following weeks, that resentment quietly grew.

My responses became shorter. My tone became sharper. Every interaction with Tong felt tense. The workplace seemed filled with negativity, and I carried it home with me every evening.

Then one day, I asked myself a difficult question:

Why was I spending so much energy focused on someone else's mistakes?

The more I reflected, the more uncomfortable the answer became.

I wasn't upset because I had been treated unfairly.

I was upset because my pride had been wounded.

I wanted to look competent. I wanted others to respect me. I wanted to avoid criticism.

Once I recognized that, something shifted.

Tong wasn't perfect. No supervisor is.

But instead of criticizing his weaknesses, I could help strengthen the areas he overlooked. Instead of focusing on what he should have done, I could focus on what I could do better.

The change wasn't dramatic overnight, but it was real.

I began communicating more openly. I asked more questions. I learned from Tong's strengths while helping fill in the gaps where I could.

Gradually, our relationship transformed.

The tension disappeared.

We became a strong team.

Several months later, another challenge tested me.

A technical lead named Feng and I were managing a critical project together. One day, a miscommunication caused an operational incident.

My instinct as project manager was immediate: solve the problem.

Feng's instinct was different. He wanted to understand exactly what had gone wrong.

Frustrated, I told him that identifying the cause wasn't the priority.

To my surprise, Feng became emotional.

He blamed himself for the mistake and felt he had failed the team.

In that moment, I realized I was making the same mistake again.

I was looking at the problem, not the person.

While I was focused on efficiency, Feng was focused on responsibility.

Neither of us was wrong—we were simply seeing the situation through different lenses.

So I changed my approach.

I apologized for my tone and acknowledged how much he cared about doing his job well.

Almost immediately, the atmosphere changed.

After a brief silence, Feng apologized too.

Together, we worked through the issue and successfully recovered the project.

What happened next surprised me most.

From that day forward, Feng became one of my strongest allies at work.

Looking back, neither experience was really about project management.

They were about leadership.

I entered the workplace believing success came from intelligence, expertise, and having the right answers.

But the lessons that changed me most had nothing to do with technical knowledge.

They came from humility.

From listening.

From learning to see situations through someone else's eyes.

I've learned that when we stop trying to prove we're right and start trying to understand others, conflicts lose their power.

And sometimes, the person who changes first is the one who transforms the entire situation.

That's a lesson no PhD program ever taught me.