Fiercely, Jessica

I don’t actually want to fight about everything.

I feel like I should probably start there.

Because somehow, I have once again found myself researching policies, questioning decisions, writing emails, gathering information, and trying to understand how people arrived at conclusions that don’t seem to make sense.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, I’ve had to stop and ask myself a question I’ve been asking with increasing frequency lately.

Jessica. What the heck?

Why do you care so much?

Can we not just let something go for once?

Here’s the thing.

It isn’t about being right. It’s about being correct.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

But I also recognize that most people who desperately need to be right probably don’t go around announcing that their primary motivation is ego.

Which means I have to be willing to examine mine, too.

And that’s where things get uncomfortable.

Love, Marriage, and Fact-Checking

When Cory and I were first married, we discovered an interesting difference in how we handled disagreements.

If we disagreed about something that could be factually verified, I wanted to look it up.

Immediately.

Which, as it turns out, is not always a charming quality in a newlywed wife.

Cory thought I was fact-checking him to prove him wrong.

I was fact-checking myself to make sure I wasn’t wrong.

Because if he made an argument strong enough to make me question what I thought I knew, I wanted to investigate.

Why would we continue arguing about something that could be verified?

We have the internet.

Let’s use it.

Over the years, either Cory has become more understanding of this particular personality trait, or I’ve simply gotten better at conducting my investigations without making a formal announcement.

These days, I can look something up, discover that I was correct, and carry on without informing him of the results.

Personal growth.

Or better investigative discretion.

Either way, our marriage has benefited.

Actually, there’s another story from those early years that Cory doesn’t even know about.

Until now, I suppose.

You’re welcome, babe.

We were still figuring out marriage, raising two babies born less than two years apart, and I was working full-time while advancing in my career.

Naturally, we occasionally argued about ridiculous things.

One disagreement involved which of us spent more time on our phones.

The accusation was that I was on mine more.

My perception was different.

We argued. Neither convinced the other. Eventually, the conversation ended.

Except my investigation had apparently only just begun.

I pulled months of phone usage data. I honestly can’t remember whether it was six months or an entire year.

Yes. Months.

Because I wanted to know whether my perception was accurate.

And the data supported my recollection.

So naturally, I did what any reasonable wife would do after conducting an extensive investigation into a relatively minor marital disagreement.

Absolutely nothing.

I didn’t reopen the argument. I didn’t present my findings. I didn’t prepare a PowerPoint titled Exhibit A: The Phone Situation.

I just kept the information to myself.

And now, more than a decade later, Cory is discovering that his wife quietly audited months of phone records over an argument he probably forgot about by the following Tuesday.

I feel like this is information he should have had before agreeing to have two more children with me.

But that story illustrates something important.

I can need to know the answer without needing everyone else to know that I know the answer.

Unfortunately, not every situation is as simple as quietly Googling something and moving on.

It’s Not the Same Thing

Wanting to be right can become about winning. Defending your position. Having the last word.

Wanting to be correct requires being willing to discover that you weren’t right in the first place.

If my goal is to be right, I need my answer to stay the same. If my goal is to be correct, I have to be willing to change my answer.

If I’m wrong, show me.

Show me the policy. Explain the calculation. Walk me through the reasoning. Give me the information I might be missing.

I can accept discovering that I’ve misunderstood something.

What I struggle with is being expected to accept an answer simply because someone delivered it confidently, holds a position of authority, or doesn’t want to discuss it anymore.

An explanation doesn’t automatically become accurate because the person giving it has a title.

And a question doesn’t automatically become disrespectful because the answer might be uncomfortable.

But here’s where I have to turn that same scrutiny back on myself.

Just because I say I’m pursuing accuracy doesn’t mean my ego is incapable of joining the conversation.

I can start with a legitimate concern and become personally invested in proving it. I can be factually correct and still handle the situation poorly.

And if I’m going to insist that other people examine their reasoning, I ought to be willing to examine mine.

Which is inconvenient.

Because sometimes I’d really prefer to just be correct.

When the Question Becomes the Problem

This past week alone has felt like an entire semester.

I’ve questioned a scholarship calculation and found myself corresponding with government offices to understand how the numbers and policies fit together.

I’ve had a children’s book rejected by a publishing platform, questioned the decision, and eventually received an email explaining that the decision had been reversed after another review.

And I’ve watched a youth sports disagreement grow into emails, videos, requests for clarification, and an appeal.

Three situations. Three different outcomes.

One decision was reversed. Another set of questions is still being examined. And another decision was upheld, even though questions about the process remained.

Somewhere in between, I was preparing for a vendor event, volunteering at schools, finishing work on my second book, and attempting to keep six people in my house functioning like reasonably civilized human beings.

You know. A relaxing week.

But these experiences have reminded me how easily the focus can shift from a question to the person asking it.

Why are you making such a big deal about this?

Why can’t you just let it go?

Suddenly, you’re defending why you cared enough to ask rather than discussing whether the information is accurate.

I don’t believe every decision I disagree with is wrong. I don’t believe everyone in authority is acting in bad faith. And having questions certainly doesn’t entitle me to the answer I want.

Sometimes I’m missing information. Sometimes I’ve misunderstood something.

But shouldn’t we be able to find that out?

When did asking someone to explain their reasoning become the equivalent of accusing them of wrongdoing?

The Fire and the Exhaustion

Here’s the part I don’t think people always understand.

I don’t actually enjoy all of this.

I don’t wake up excited about drafting another email or spending an afternoon researching policies and reconstructing timelines.

There are moments when I would genuinely love to shrug my shoulders and say, Oh well.

Instead, I have this fire inside me whenever something doesn’t add up.

Sometimes it settles into a quiet smolder.

Lately, it’s a blaze.

I’m not defeated. If anything, I’m more determined than ever.

But I’m exhausted, too.

And I think that’s what I struggle to explain.

I don’t necessarily want to stop asking questions.

I want to understand why asking them has to be so difficult.

Why does requesting an explanation sometimes turn into a prolonged disagreement? Why does asking about a process sometimes require researching whether one even exists?

And why do I eventually end up wondering whether I’m the problem for continuing to ask?

I know I can be persistent to a fault. My husband could probably provide references.

But I don’t think the solution is to stop asking reasonable questions simply because getting answers is exhausting.

At the same time, there’s a particular loneliness in caring about something when everyone around you seems ready to move on.

It doesn’t mean they don’t care. It doesn’t mean they’re wrong for processing things differently.

But sometimes I find myself wondering whether I’m standing on conviction or simply being stubborn.

And the frustrating thing is that I don’t always know.

I can be confident about the facts and still uncertain about my motivations.

Truth, Grace, and Letting Go

My faith adds another layer to this.

Because I believe God cares about truth and justice. I believe discernment matters.

Proverbs 18:17 says:

“In a lawsuit the first to speak seems right, until someone comes forward and cross-examines.” (NIV)

That one speaks to my fact-checking soul.

But James 1:19 reminds us to be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry.

Well.

That’s considerably less convenient.

Because Scripture doesn’t just challenge me to examine what other people say.

It challenges me to examine myself.

Am I listening as carefully as I’m questioning?

Am I genuinely willing to discover that I’m wrong?

Am I seeking understanding, or am I trying to force an outcome?

I can be correct about the facts and still be wrong in my attitude.

And I can have a legitimate reason to speak up without abandoning grace in the process.

I’m also learning that having accurate information doesn’t guarantee a particular outcome.

People aren’t equations. Relationships aren’t courtrooms. And sometimes you can present a perfectly reasonable argument and still walk away without the resolution you hoped for.

That’s difficult for someone like me.

Because sometimes my desire to keep pursuing an issue stops being about establishing the truth and starts becoming about needing someone else to acknowledge it.

I have to ask myself whether I’m still trying to understand something, advocating for a necessary change, or simply struggling to accept that the outcome is no longer mine to control.

I haven’t mastered knowing the difference.

Not even close.

But I’m learning that being correct doesn’t obligate me to spend the rest of my life convincing someone else.

And trusting God with an outcome doesn’t necessarily mean agreeing with it.

Sometimes it means recognizing that I’ve done what I can and that the rest was never entirely mine to control.

I still believe questions have value. I still believe there are times when speaking up is the right thing to do.

I just don’t want to become so determined to correct everything that I lose sight of everything that’s still good.

Or so afraid of being perceived as difficult that I stop asking legitimate questions.

Maybe that’s the tension I’m learning to live with.

I don’t have a perfect formula for it.

I still occasionally find myself six hours into researching something I intended to spend six minutes thinking about.

But I’m trying to remember that the goal is to care more about what’s true than about being the person who was right.

Even when that means discovering I was wrong.

Even when the answer doesn’t change anything.

I’m working on it.

In the meantime, if you catch me quietly Googling something in the middle of a conversation, don’t worry.

I’m probably just fact-checking myself.

Probably.

Fiercely, Jessica