The Power of ‘I’m Sorry’: What One Mistake Taught Me About Trust

In every classroom—and in every leadership role—there are moments that test who we are more than what we know.

Recently, I had one of those moments.

There’s a student I’ve worked really hard to build a strong relationship with. He’s bright, creative, and, like many middle schoolers, walks the line between full engagement and occasional defiance. But in my room, we’ve found a rhythm. He does great work. We joke. There’s mutual respect. And honestly? I’m proud of the relationship we’ve built.

He also—like many teens—has a habit of sneaking glances at his phone. Usually when I ask him to put it away, he does. No big deal.

But this time, I was across the room, elbow-deep in helping another student with clay. I saw him sitting with his hands under the table, looking down. From ten feet away, it looked like he was on his phone.

So I called out, without checking:
“Are you on your phone?”

He looked up at me and held up the tiny sculpture he was making. His face said it all: Really?

It wasn’t a meltdown. It wasn’t a big dramatic moment. But it was a moment.

And I had a choice.

A more defensive version of me might have shrugged it off or doubled down with a snarky, “Well, usually you are.”
A more ego-driven version might have just ignored the misstep.

But something in me knew—this was an opportunity. Not just to model leadership, but to strengthen trust.

So I said his name, and then:
“Oh my gosh. I am so sorry. That was totally my mistake. And honestly? That’s a huge lesson for me.”

Then I pivoted to the rest of the class and said,
“Actually, everyone—let me use myself as an example. I made an assumption, and that assumption made me act like kind of a jerk. This is where assumptions get you: embarrassed.”

A couple students smiled. The boy laughed. I asked if we were good. He gave me a thumbs-up.
And just like that, a small moment turned into something bigger: a moment of repair, a moment of modeling, a moment of truth.

What I Didn’t Expect

What struck me most wasn’t just that this student accepted my apology.
It was the way the rest of the class visibly softened. Smiles. Nods. A kind of quiet approval.

It reminded me that students—and all people—are watching.
They’re learning how to handle conflict.
They’re noticing whether power is wielded or owned with care.
They’re watching to see if you’re someone who can be trusted to tell the truth, even when it makes you vulnerable.

And here’s what else:
That tiny moment of accountability probably strengthened my relationships with other students, too—ones I wasn’t even talking to directly.

Because people remember how you show up when you get it wrong.
Especially when you’re the one in power.

The Mirror

This little story became a mirror for me.

It reminded me of all the times I’ve been on the other side—when someone assumed the worst about me, distorted the story, and refused to take ownership. Especially in systems where leadership is often wielded without humility, and silence is mistaken for professionalism.

It reminded me how good leadership isn’t about being right.
It’s about being real.

The best leaders I’ve known aren’t flawless. But they’re accountable.
They don’t avoid mistakes—they own them.
They don’t silence people—they create repair.

I want to be that kind of leader.
And if that means calling myself out in front of a room full of middle schoolers?

Good.

Because every time we model accountability, we plant seeds of trust.
And trust? That’s where real leadership takes root.