It seems a lot of my newsletters are born out of that painful season of 2013–2014. Most of you know the story, so I won’t repeat it here. But to this point in my life, it was one of the most painful seasons I had ever walked through. I was carrying a lot of pain, discontentment, and resentment, and I didn’t really understand what was happening inside of me. Eventually, that discontentment led me to begin working with an executive coach named Chris Halter.

One of the things Chris started teaching me early on had to do with something I still wrestle with today: my need to be right.

Especially back then, I really wanted to be right.

And usually—almost always—I was right in my own eyes.

I grew up in a family that was quick to discuss who was smart and who wasn’t, often with a tone of judgment attached. My older brother was the “smart one.” He was often praised for his creativity, his intellect, and his grades, and somewhere along the way I began to feel like I didn’t quite measure up.

I don’t think anyone intentionally taught me this, but I learned a lesson: being smart mattered. Really mattered.

And like most of us, I carried some of that childhood wiring with me into adulthood—and eventually into my professional life.

That did not serve me well when I was running a business.

Imagine the arguments I could have with my business partner. Should we buy the equipment? How much inventory should we carry? What should we pay someone? How should we handle an employee evaluation? You can imagine the hundreds—probably thousands—of decisions we had to make together every month.

In some ways, a business partnership is a lot like a marriage. Two people. Shared resources. Different upbringings. Different experiences. And often very different opinions about the “right” decision.

Fairly early in my coaching relationship with Chris, he picked up on my need to be right and began challenging me in that space.

He introduced me to an idea that began to change my perspective—and eventually gave me the freedom to be wrong.

Every person has two different kinds of value: intrinsic value and market value.

Intrinsic Value

Your intrinsic—or inherent—value is the worth you possess simply because you exist.

It isn’t earned. It isn’t achieved. And it can’t be taken away.

Think about holding your son or daughter for the very first time. What has that newborn done to earn your love?

Nothing.

And yet, almost any loving parent would look at that child and say, I love you more than you could possibly understand. I would sacrifice myself for you.

That child didn’t earn that love. They simply received it.

For me, that gives me a small glimpse into the heart of my Creator.

I don’t have to prove that I’m lovable. I don’t have to accomplish enough, succeed enough, or be right enough to earn my value.

I believe I am loved by my Creator more than I can possibly comprehend. I am a once-in-a-lifetime creation. There has never been another me, and there will never be another me. I have a unique combination of gifts, experiences, strengths, weaknesses, personality, relationships, and opportunities that allow me to contribute something to this world that no one else can contribute in exactly the same way.

I am worthy of love.

I belong.

I am enough.

And here’s the part that has taken me years to understand:

None of that is on the line.

Market Value

Market value is different.

Market value changes all the time. It’s the value the marketplace assigns to our skills, decisions, performance, and what we contribute.

If I become better at what I do, learn new skills, become a better leader, or make good business decisions, my market value may increase. If I make poor decisions, refuse feedback, or stop learning and growing, my market value may decrease.

And that’s okay.

Here’s where I got tangled.

When someone questioned one of my business decisions—or when a decision simply didn’t work out—I often experienced it as though something much deeper was being questioned.

If you questioned my decision, I felt like you were questioning whether I was smart.

And because I had unknowingly connected being smart with being worthy, I wasn’t merely defending my decision.

I was defending me.

I was defending my worthiness.

My worthiness was never actually on the line, but I believed it was. And because I believed it was, I lived—and often argued—as if it was.

No wonder I could be stubborn.

No wonder I could become defensive.

No wonder being wrong felt so threatening.

I thought my worthiness was on the line.

It never was.

But because I believed it was, I lived as though I constantly had something to defend. And that is a kind of bondage.

The freedom has come as I’ve slowly learned to separate the two.

My decisions can be wrong without me being less worthy.

I can receive difficult feedback and still be enough.

I can make a terrible business decision and learn from it without turning that decision into a verdict about who I am.

I can apologize.

I can change my mind.

I can sit across the table from someone who sees the world completely differently than I do and become curious instead of defensive.

Because I don’t have to protect my worthiness.

An Invitation

Maybe this week, pay attention to the moments when you feel unusually defensive.

When someone questions your idea, your leadership, your parenting, your performance, or one of your decisions, notice what happens inside you.

Then ask yourself:

What am I actually defending right now?

Maybe the issue really does matter. Maybe your position is right. Maybe you need to stand your ground.

But maybe—just maybe—you’ll discover that underneath the issue is something else you’re trying desperately to prove:

I’m smart.

I’m successful.

I’m a good leader.

I’m a good parent.

I’m important.

I’m enough.

What if none of those things needed to be proven in that moment?

What if you could separate the decision being discussed from the person sitting in the chair?

Your decisions are open for evaluation.

Your performance is open for evaluation.

Your ideas are open for evaluation.

Your market value can rise and fall.

But your intrinsic value is not on the line.

And maybe that’s part of what maturity looks like for me. My intrinsic value isn’t increasing as I get older. What’s changing is my ability to believe it.

The longer I live, the more I’m learning to embrace just how loved and lovable I already am—to live from my worthiness rather than constantly trying to prove it.

I’m still learning to live that way.

But when I do, I find there is a whole lot more freedom on the other side. The more secure I become in my intrinsic value, the freer I am to surrender my need to be right.

Because being wrong was never a threat to my worthiness in the first place.