A few days ago, while chatting with a good friend as our coffee cooled, the topic came up. He was telling me, with that resigned smile of someone who recognizes their own flaws in others, about the latest argument he’d had at home. Just one of those silly arguments, the kind that starts over a dirty dish and ends up going over the couple’s entire military history.

“In the end I apologized to her,” he told me, “but I made it clear that if she hadn’t spoken to me in that tone, I wouldn’t have reacted that way.”

I burst out laughing. Because, let’s be honest, who hasn’t perpetrated such a masterpiece of defensive diplomacy at some point? We love to apologize… as long as we can slip in a bill along with the apology. We find comfort in dropping a half-hearted apology with a deceptive undertone, that famous ” forgive me, but… ” which really means: ” it was your fault, I’m just more polite . “

Saint Augustine, who knew a thing or two about the psychology of the human soul and didn’t mince words, said that pride is the love of one’s own excellence taken to the extreme of blindness. We are terrified of being exposed. We think that getting off our high horse is equivalent to breaking our backs, when in reality the only thing that breaks is the mask of infallibility we’ve made for ourselves.

But let’s be practical: how many times have you come out ahead after fiercely defending an absurd position just to avoid admitting a mistake?

Offering a sincere, disarming apology, free of any reprieve clauses, is one of the rarest fine arts in the modern world. It’s painful, let’s not kid ourselves. It requires swallowing hard, leaving the petty excuses and justifications behind, and saying five dry words: ” I was wrong. I’m sorry . “ Period. No commas, no causal clauses, and no bringing up what the other person did on Christmas Eve 2018.

When we dare to do that crazy thing at the dining room table, in the office, or in front of a child, something almost miraculous happens. The atmosphere, which was about to freeze, relaxes. The other person, who already had their fists clenched and shield raised to strike back, suddenly finds themselves without an opponent. Sincere vulnerability doesn’t weaken us; on the contrary, it disarms the most bitter conflicts because it doesn’t seek to win an argument, it seeks to win back the person.

St. Ignatius of Loyola suggested in his Spiritual Exercises a wonderful practice before going to sleep: the examination of conscience. No self-flagellation or pointless guilt, but rather a calm and honest look at the day. Perhaps today is a good time to ask ourselves a couple of pointed questions:

• Have I been creating distance between myself and someone for days because I don’t want to make the first move?
• When I apologize, am I trying to heal the relationship or just stay ahead on the scoreboard?
• What would happen if today I decided to apologize for my part of the blame, even if the other person didn’t lift a finger?

The Gospel proposes something quite radical on this matter. It doesn’t ask us to be impeccable judges of others’ faults, but rather artisans of reconciliation. And true peace, the kind that allows us to sleep soundly, is never built on victory in a debate, but on the humility of recognizing that we are all made of the same stuff: imperfect, clumsy, but capable of starting over.

Tomorrow, when the inevitable friction arises—because it will, don’t worry—try holding back your ” but .” Coffee tastes much better when you’re not wearing your armor.