I have my fair share of flaws, just like anyone else. Neither my caffeine habit nor my relentless fixation on the news cycle are particularly endearing habits, but those were mere trifles compared with my obsession with being right. From what colour to paint the kitchen to the origin of a famous quote, or even something as trivial as what to have for dinner, I loved to argue. Day or night, I was always ready to spar with whoever was unlucky enough to strike up a conversation with me.
My challengers included my children, my wife, friends and even strangers. During these debates, I could be playfully teasing, passionately opposing, or even dismissively superior. But what was always true was that I was never really listening to the other person’s perspective. For some unexplored reason, I would always consider my own argument to be more competent and would try to prove it in every possible way.
My fixation on being right had been a mainstay in my life and had often stirred up trouble in my family; there were moments when my marriage became strained and my kids grew distant. The longest fight I had was with my parents, and it dragged on for nearly a year. Even small disagreements had the potential to blow up. When I tried to keep my cool, I would lose my resolve in the heat of the moment. I didn’t believe that old habits died hard. My habit seemed immortal. Eternal.
Until an afternoon with my granddaughter – some 70 years my junior – opened my eyes to the impact my behaviour was having on the people around me. We were playing a board game when she made a move that broke the rules. I corrected her, but she ended up making the same mistake again. I read the rules out loud and asked if she got it this time. She smiled at me and shook her head. “Grandpa, why are you so hyped?” she asked. “It’s just a game. We’re here to have fun, aren’t we?”
Something about her words really hit home. We weren’t there to be right, we were there to enjoy ourselves – when to roll the dice or how to move the pieces was merely a backdrop. What truly mattered was our bond and the moments we shared.
A few days later, my son came over for dinner. During the meal, he shared a viewpoint that struck me as baseless, if not absurd. Typically, I would have launched myself headfirst into a heated debate with him, only to end up feeling guilty for being so obstinate. But this time, as I parted my lips to respond, I found myself popping a forkful of pie into my mouth instead, savouring it quietly. My granddaughter’s words echoed in my mind – we were gathered to have some fun, weren’t we? Was it really worth spoiling the afternoon just to prove my point?
My abstinence surprised me. But what really took my breath away as I listened to him was a newfound desire to understand him. This experience brought me a joy that far surpassed the fleeting satisfaction of winning an argument.
In hindsight, my drive to win hadn’t really been about seeking the truth, but about showing I was better than everyone else. I wanted people to see me as the smartest, most capable person in the room and by always having the final say, I felt I was proving it. What I came to realise was that my behaviour was having the opposite effect. I was gaining no respect or appreciation by being stubborn. By letting go, I gained way more than I ever did by pushing back.
And the more I practised, the better I mastered the art of keeping quiet. What I could never have anticipated was just how much my overall happiness would improve by simply listening calmly to others without interrupting or becoming overly emotional. Learning to flex this muscle doesn’t mean I now passively accept everyone else’s opinion. But it has taught me a newfound tolerance of difference. After all, no one is forcing me to nod in approval to every statement. When I don’t agree with someone, a simple shrug or a neutral response such as “Who knows? Maybe?” can work, too.
I can’t claim to have achieved perfection. At times, I still feel a familiar wave of irritation rise up that has the potential to scupper my careful strategy. But as with all difficult things in life, perseverance is key. Once I realised I could make proactive changes to my behaviour, I started to notice all of the other areas in my life that could benefit from some fine-tuning, like getting a new sweater and suddenly noticing that the rest of your wardrobe needs a refresh. Drinking too much coffee and tea was one of those habits that was no longer working for me. But once I stopped stressing over conflicts with my loved ones, I found I didn’t crave caffeine like I used to.
Now I recognise that arguing at the dinner table is much like deciding to drink an extra cup of coffee or glass of wine, or spending an additional hour (sometimes two or three) on social media. These are matters of self-discipline and nothing more. I had always understood this concept in theory, but it took a seven-year-old’s intervention for me to apply it. After all, we’re here to have fun, aren’t we?
Sergey Maidukov is an author who lives in Kyiv
