For a season of my life, I had a response that came out of my mouth constantly: “I know.”
Someone would correct me. “I know.”
Someone would give me advice. “I know.”
Someone would point out something I needed to work on. “I know.”
I honestly don’t remember when I started saying it so much. I don’t even think I realized I was doing it.
Until one of my mentors finally had enough.
We were having one of those conversations where they were trying to help me see something, and apparently I had responded with “I know” one too many times.
They looked at me, clearly frustrated, and said: “If you knew, I wouldn’t be having this conversation with you!”
But they were right. And once they said it, I couldn’t unhear it.
At first, I thought I simply needed to stop saying “I know.” But as God began exposing what was underneath those two little words, I realized this wasn’t really about vocabulary.
It was about my heart.
Sometimes “I know” really meant: I hear you. Please don’t be mad at me.
Sometimes it meant: Please don’t reject me.
Sometimes it meant: I already see what I did wrong. I just don’t know how to change it.
Other times, if I’m being truthful, it was pride. I wanted the last word. I wanted you to know that you weren’t telling me something I hadn’t already figured out. And sometimes there was another layer underneath it; something that almost looked like meekness but wasn’t.
I didn’t want someone else’s voice to have too much power over me.
There were reasons for that.
Growing up with seasons where I felt like my voice didn’t matter and people took advantage of it had left something in me that wanted to make sure it mattered now. I had learned to protect myself. And somewhere along the way, knowing things became part of that protection.
If I already knew, you couldn’t catch me unaware. If I already knew, maybe I wasn’t failing. If I already knew, maybe you wouldn’t think less of me. What looked like confidence sometimes hid insecurity underneath. And what looked like strength sometimes was just self-protection.
Once God brought this to the surface, I started noticing that my “I know” wasn’t limited to conversations with my mentor.
It was showing up in my relationships. In my work. In leadership. Even in my attempts at “self-improvement.” And then came the uncomfortable realization: This quiet stubbornness in me had probably kept me from growing more than I realized.
Because you can hear someone without actually listening to them. You can receive advice while internally preparing your explanation. You can sit through correction while building your defense. You can even nod your head while your heart is saying, Yeah, but…
And apparently, you can say “I know” while proving that there is still something you don’t know.
Proverbs 12:15 says: “The way of fools seems right to them, but the wise listen to advice.”
That verse hits differently when you realize Scripture doesn’t describe wisdom here as knowing everything.
The wise person listens. That means teachability isn’t evidence that I lack wisdom.
Teachability is part of wisdom.
Years passed. Eventually I went back to visit that same mentor and their family. And, as usually happened when we were together, at some point I found myself receiving another moment of wisdom and teaching.
But this time I was quiet. I listened. I asked questions. I didn’t feel the need to explain everything. About thirty minutes into the conversation, my mentor stopped. “Joelibeck, you haven’t said ‘I know’!”
Then came the question: “What happened? Did you ever figure out why you had that urge to answer that way?”
By then, I had. It wasn’t one thing.
There had been pride. There had been insecurity. There had been fear of rejection. There had been the need to have the last word. And there had been a girl who spent enough of her life feeling like her voice didn’t matter that she eventually became determined to make sure people knew it did.
But God had been healing that too.
Because security in Christ had begun teaching me something self-protection never could:
My voice can matter without always needing to be the final voice.
I don’t have to prove my intelligence. I don’t have to prove my discernment. I don’t have to prove that I already knew.
I can simply receive.
I feel free knowing now that I don’t know everything. Being intelligent doesn’t make me all-knowing. Having discernment doesn’t make me infallible. Remembering a lot of information doesn’t mean I understand everything. Having experience doesn’t mean someone with less experience has nothing to teach me. And being right about something doesn’t mean I have nothing left to learn.
That’s actually become incredibly freeing.
Because when my identity isn’t dependent on appearing right, being wrong isn’t such a threat.
I can say: “I hadn’t thought about it that way.” “Tell me more.” “Help me understand.” “You’re right.” “I need to think about that.”
And sometimes I can just be quiet.
James 1:19 tells us to be “quick to listen, slow to speak.” I used to hear that mostly as instruction about controlling our words.
Now I see another invitation. Sometimes being slow to speak gives truth enough room to get past our defenses.
If I think upward, God is the source of truth. I am not.
That sounds obvious until I notice how desperately I sometimes want to establish that my perspective is the correct one. Following Jesus requires surrendering more than our behavior. Sometimes we have to surrender our right to defend our image, our reputation, our intelligence, and our need to have the final word.
Thinking inward, what am I protecting when I need to be right?
Maybe it’s pride. Maybe insecurity. Maybe fear. Maybe rejection. Maybe an old wound that taught me being wrong wasn’t safe. The answer may be different for each of us. But God already knows what is underneath it. We don’t have to hide it from Him. And because our identity is secure in Christ, we don’t have to protect ourselves by pretending we have nothing left to learn.
Outwardly, that security changes the way we listen. We can receive correction without immediately explaining ourselves. We can ask another question. We can consider someone else’s perspective. We can admit when we were wrong.
Humility doesn’t require pretending we know nothing. It simply leaves room for God to show us what we still don’t know.
Sometimes He does that through Scripture. Sometimes through conviction. And sometimes He uses someone sitting across from us saying something we really don’t want to hear.
So now, when I feel that old urge to explain, defend, correct, or quickly say, “I know,” I want to leave room for a different question:
What if there is something here I still need to hear?
Because if I really want to grow, I need to leave space for my need to be right to move aside long enough for truth to get in. Maybe surrender sometimes sounds less like having the right answer… and more like being quiet enough to receive one.
Let’s tune in.
