Last weekend, Elise told me I was wrong.
Not cruelly, not even dramatically — just casually, mid-sentence, while I was mid-lecture about something she didn’t ask for advice on.

She didn’t raise her voice. She just looked at me and said, “You know that’s not actually true, right?”

And my brain short-circuited.

I could feel it — the flush of defensiveness, the tightening in my chest, the tiny voice saying, Don’t back down now. Double down. Find proof. Win this argument.

In that split second, I wasn’t defending truth.
I was defending ego.

Ego is sneaky. It shows up wearing confidence’s clothes.
It makes you feel like you’re standing your ground when really, you’re just protecting your pride.

It convinces you that being right matters more than being real.

The Stoics had a clear view on this.
They saw ego as the biggest obstacle to wisdom.

Epictetus wrote, “It is impossible for a man to learn what he thinks he already knows.”

That line should probably be printed on my forehead.

Because when you think you already know, you stop listening.
You stop learning.
You start defending.

And suddenly you’re not solving problems — you’re arguing about who gets credit for noticing them first.

Parenthood is basically a crash course in ego management.
Nothing humbles you faster than being corrected by a child who doesn’t know how to spell Wednesday.

The other day, Isla told me I pronounce “espresso” wrong.
She said, “It’s ex-presso, Dad.”
I said, “Actually, it’s—”
Then I stopped myself.

Because what was I doing?
I was about to argue with a eight-year-old over coffee pronunciation like a psychopath.

My ego wanted to prove I was right.
My brain wanted peace.
The ego almost won.

Ego loves control.
It hates being questioned.
It wants to steer every conversation, every meeting, every marriage.

It tells you: If you admit you’re wrong, you lose authority.

But the truth? Admitting you’re wrong is how authority is earned.

People respect honesty far more than performance.

When I was early in my career, I thought leadership meant knowing everything.
Clients expected answers, staff expected direction — I thought confidence meant certainty.

So I pretended to have both.

Even when I didn’t.
Especially when I didn’t.

If someone challenged an idea, I’d double down.
If someone suggested a better way, I’d find a flaw.
If someone succeeded where I’d failed, I’d quietly find reasons why their win “didn’t really count.”

Classic ego move.

It took years (and a few public disasters) to realise that being a leader isn’t about being right — it’s about being accountable.

The quietest person in the room usually has the most power, because they’re not performing. They’re listening.

Ego also kills creativity.
You can’t learn new skills, grow a business, or strengthen relationships if your self-image needs constant protection.

I see it all the time — people too proud to ask for help.
Too proud to delegate.
Too proud to say, “I stuffed up.”

The Stoics knew this too.
Marcus Aurelius wrote in Meditations, “You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.”

When you remember that, being right suddenly feels a lot less important.

Because one day, you’ll die — and no one will care who won the argument about the spreadsheet or the campaign idea or the dishwasher cycle.

They’ll remember how you made them feel when you lost your temper trying to prove a point.

That’s the real price of ego. It doesn’t charge you upfront.
It waits until you’ve lost something that mattered and then hands you the bill.

The Stoics didn’t preach. They practised.
They didn’t talk about humility — they lived it through restraint.
They didn’t seek recognition — they sought understanding.

Modern Stoicism gets romanticised as calm detachment.
In reality, it’s daily ego-murder.

Ego makes you fragile.
Confidence makes you flexible.

Ego says: “I already know.”
Confidence says: “Teach me.”

Ego says: “I have to win.”
Confidence says: “I just need to do what’s right.”

Ego says: “They’re wrong.”
Confidence says: “Maybe I am.”

That small shift is the difference between a tyrant and a leader, between an argument and a conversation, between a miserable life and a peaceful one.

These days, when I feel ego creeping in — that urge to prove, to perform, to dominate — I try to pause and ask:

“Is this about truth, or is this about me?”

Most of the time, it’s about me.

So I shut up.
Apologise if needed.
And move on.

It doesn’t feel great in the moment.
But later — it feels like freedom.

Because you don’t have to win when you’re already enough.

Reflection:​
Where is ego running the show in your life right now?
The argument that won’t end. The conversation you’re avoiding. The advice you keep giving but never take.

Try this: pick one situation this week where you’d normally defend yourself. Instead, just listen.
See what happens when you stop trying to win.

PS: Ego whispers, “Protect your image.”
Wisdom replies, “You don’t need one.”

Until next time,

Broden Johnson