"But the Emperor has nothing at all on," said a little child.
The Emperor’s New Clothes by Hans Christian Andersen.
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
To Love the Truth More Than Being Right
There’s something achingly human about the way we cling to 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 find. 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 over years of experience, memory, and relationships. To unravel them is to risk unravelling ourselves. A belief can feel like an heirloom—worn, perhaps, but cherished. To release it may feel like betraying not only who we are, but those who gave it to us.
But it’s not just 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 once held sacred. The fear isn’t just of being wrong—it’s of being cast out. Tribalism is a quiet but powerful force, pulling us to defend our shared truths, even when they wound us or silence others.
And then there’s the fear of the unknown. If I loosen my grip on this belief, what will take its place? Will anything? Even a frayed rope can feel safer than the dark chasm below. Certainty, even when flawed, offers comfort. Letting go feels unthinkable—not because the belief is strong, but because we are afraid.
Emotional investment deepens the entrenchment. The longer we’ve believed something, the harder it is to let go. Each argument we’ve made, each conversation where we stood our ground, becomes a brick in a wall we’re now reluctant to dismantle. It’s not just the belief we’re defending—it’s our pride, our past, our story.
This isn’t new. In the Bible, the Pharisees clung tightly to their interpretations of the law. Their rigidity blinded them to the love and grace of the very God they professed to serve. Their defense wasn’t born of ignorance, but of identity. And yet, in contrast, there’s Paul—whose zealous belief in persecuting Christians shattered on the road to Damascus. His transformation reminds us that truth can find us even in our certainty—and that humility makes room for something better.
This is where the tale of The Emperor’s New Clothes speaks so clearly. The emperor, flattered by tailors who wove invisible garments, paraded through the city in nothing but pride. Everyone saw the truth—but no one dared to speak it, for fear of looking foolish. They defended the illusion because the cost of honesty was too high. It took the courage of a child—untainted by fear or pride—to declare what was obvious: “The emperor has no clothes!”
Sometimes we need a childlike honesty to see our beliefs for what they are: not always noble, not always true, but deeply human. And the question is not whether we’ve ever been the emperor—but whether we have the humility to listen when someone dares to speak.
Admitting the flaws in our beliefs isn’t weakness. It’s courage. It’s the courage to acknowledge that the rope we’ve been clinging to may not hold—and to trust the space beyond. It’s the courage to say, “I may have been wrong,” and to welcome the growth that follows.
Letting go doesn’t mean abandoning everything. It means refining what we hold, allowing our beliefs to breathe and mature. Faith, after all, is not static. It’s a living thing—shaped by experience, study, and reflection. The beauty of being human is that we are always in progress. And so are the truths we cling to.
Defending flawed beliefs is not a failure—it’s a sign of how deeply we care. But perhaps the most liberating truth 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 surrender, we may discover we haven’t lost ourselves at all—but uncovered something truer, stronger, and more enduring.