"But the Emperor has nothing at all on," said a little child.
The Emperor’s New Clothes by Hans Christian Andersen
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A Letter To Those Who Cannot Leave Go of the Flaws We Defend
There’s something achingly human about the way we hold onto our beliefs, even when they’re cracked and imperfect. We argue for them passionately, patching over the holes with whatever scraps of reason we can muster. It’s not always because we’re blind to their faults; more often, it’s because we can’t bear what letting go might mean.
Beliefs are more than ideas. They’re the threads of our identity, stitched together over years of experience, learning, and relationships. To unravel them is to risk unravelling ourselves. I think of how deeply personally a belief can feel—like an heirloom passed down, not perfect, but cherished. Letting go of it can feel like a betrayal, not only of who we are but of those who gave it to us.
But it’s not just about the personal. Beliefs bind us to others, weaving us into families, communities, even nations. Imagine admitting to your closest circle that you’ve begun to doubt something you all hold dear. The fear isn’t just about being wrong; it’s about being cast out. Tribalism is a force we often underestimate, pulling us to defend our collective truths, even when they hurt us or others.
And then there’s the uncertainty. If I loosen my grip on this belief, what will replace it? Will anything? Certainty, even when flawed, feels safe. It’s like holding onto a frayed rope over a dark chasm—letting go seems unthinkable, even if the rope itself is breaking.
Yet, perhaps the most profound reason we cling to flawed beliefs is emotional investment. The longer we’ve held onto something, the harder it is to let go. It’s as if every argument we’ve made, every conversation where we stood our ground, builds a wall that’s increasingly difficult to dismantle. It’s not just our belief at stake—it’s our pride, our history, our story.
I think of moments in the Bible where this plays out so vividly. The Pharisees, for example, held tightly to their interpretations of the law. They couldn’t see that their own rigidity blinded them to the love and grace of the very God they sought to honour. It wasn’t ignorance; it was a defines of the identity they had built over generations. And yet, in contrast, there’s Paul—a man whose belief in persecuting Christians shattered when confronted by truth. His humility in letting go is a reminder of what’s possible when we open ourselves to change.
But here’s the thing: admitting the flaws in our beliefs isn’t weakness. It’s courage. It’s the kind of courage that acknowledges the rope we’ve been clinging to might not hold and chooses to trust the unknown below. It’s the courage to say, “I may have been wrong,” and to embrace the growth that comes with that admission.
Embracing the flaws in our beliefs doesn’t mean abandoning them altogether. It means refining them, allowing them to grow and breathe. Faith itself isn’t static; it’s alive, shaped by experience, study, and reflection. The beauty of being human is that we are always in progress, and so too are the ideas we hold dear.
In the end, defending flawed beliefs isn’t a sign of failure—it’s a reflection of how deeply we care. But perhaps the most freeing realization is this: we are not defined by our beliefs alone. We are defined by our willingness to seek truth, to grow, and to love, even when it means letting go of what once felt certain. And in that letting go, we may find that we haven’t lost ourselves at all—but discovered something truer, stronger, and more enduring.