Open Letters

In the summer of 1985, I stood in a dusty lot, clutching $500—every penny I’d scraped together mowing lawns for a month. At 18, I was the youngest in a family of mechanical engineers, ready to drive my first car to the University of West Florida and into the freedom of adulthood. That car, a beat-up clunker from 1965, was my ticket to proving I could make big decisions without anyone grabbing the wheel—or in my case, the toy—out of my hands. You see, growing up with vision problems meant people often stepped in to “help” by doing things for me, assuming I couldn’t manage. This time, I was determined to show them I could. Spoiler: I was wrong. And admitting that mistake? That took more courage than buying the car.

The trouble started when I forgot to check the oil. I didn’t know much about cars—my dad and brother, both mechanical engineers, could’ve written a manual blindfolded—but I was too proud to ask for advice. One day, the engine started grinding, smoke billowed, and my heart sank. I’d burned it out. Most people would’ve cut their losses, but not me. I doubled down, pouring most of my college savings into repairs to prove I wasn’t the kid who needed rescuing. Every wrench turned felt like a jab at my pride, a reminder I was trying to outsmart my family’s expertise and my own limitations.

Why was it so hard to admit I’d messed up? Being the youngest, I’d spent years watching others take over my tasks, thinking they were helping with my vision struggles. That car was my chance to say, “I’ve got this.” Except I didn’t. The more money I sank into it, the deeper the hole I dug. By the time I faced reality, I sold the car to a junkyard for $25. For the next two years, from 1985 to 1987, I trekked to classes at the university not West Florida by bus and on foot, my dreams of cruising campus replaced by blisters and bus schedules.

Looking back, that $500 mistake wasn’t just about a car. It was about learning the courage to own my failures. Pride kept me from admitting I needed guidance, and my vision challenges made me feel I had to work twice as hard to prove my independence. But here’s the truth: saying “I was wrong” isn’t weakness—it’s power. It’s the first step to healing, to advocating for yourself, to growing. If I’d asked for help early, I might’ve saved my savings and my sanity. Instead, I learned the hard way that clinging to a mistake to save face only costs you more.

Those bus rides and long walks? They weren’t just punishment. They gave me time to think, to meet people I’d never have met behind the wheel, to build resilience. That clunker taught me to value practicality over ego, a lesson I carried years later when I stood up to authority in a dream I had in China, asserting myself in a way 18-year-old me couldn’t. Mistakes don’t define you—they refine you.

What’s your $500 car? That moment you kept pushing forward to avoid admitting you were wrong? Maybe you stayed in a job too long, chased a bad investment, or ignored advice because pride got in the way. Here’s how I learned to let go: pause and assess, ask for help (it’s not defeat—it’s strength), and know when to walk away. If you’re like me, wrestling with being underestimated—whether it’s a disability or just being the youngest—owning your mistakes is how you reclaim your voice.

So, I’m curious: what’s a mistake you struggled to admit, and how did owning it change you? Share in the comments—I’d love to hear your story. Let’s keep learning, together.