Several years ago, I was an employee at a company during a turbulent stretch—both for them and for me. The economy was uncertain, my family situation demanded stability, and I'd taken a leap of faith on a role that had plenty of reasons to say no to.

During the interview process, they told me directly: "Are you fine with being yelled at here? Insulted personally? If not, this might not be the right place for you. You have to be tough—even if you're screamed at not only for unmet expectations, but for things about you personally."

I said yes. I needed the job.

But the work went well all things considered. My numbers were strong. Revenue was up. I was contributing to strategic meetings on a multi-week basis—not just contributing, but leading sessions to help our teams figure out the best path forward. I thought I was doing fine.

Then came the meeting.

If you know anything about me, my opinions are strong. But I'm also willing to change them the moment someone offers logic more sound than mine—which happens often. I worry constantly about the balance between humility and egotism. I have many philosophical thoughts on this, most of them unresolved.

But I've developed a small practice: every week, I ask myself whether I admitted I was wrong at least once and changed my thinking or behavior based on that admission. If the answer is yes, I know I'm doing okay. It's a silly way to put something in a box that's already in one—but it makes me see it inside the box.

So I made a strong opinion in this meeting. I didn't soften it. I said what I saw: how a problem was eroding a segment of our business, how I thought we could solve it. Then I left the door open for rebuttals. I wanted discussion.

In the room were about half a dozen colleagues, my boss—let's call him the product lead—and his boss, who oversaw the entire product organization.

The product lead didn't like my take. He launched into a long explanation of why I was wrong, laying out what he called "the facts." I nodded. I said things like "mm-hmm" and "yeah, I agree" as he spoke—not because I was performing, but because I was genuinely tracking his argument and rethinking my position in real time. This is just something I do. I don't think it's bespoke to my autism. We all have ways of engaging that are subconscious but communicate a general message: I hear you. I'm with you. I'm updating.

Then he stopped me.

"You don't agree with a fact," he said. "You understand a fact."

In front of everyone.

I was caught off guard. Not just by the correction, but by the venue. This wasn't a private word after the meeting. This was a public moment designed, whether consciously or not, to make me feel small.

And it worked.

I called my wife from the bathroom and cried. Not because of the correction itself, but because the moral, social, professional complexity of it all was too much to hold at once.

This feels bespoke to my autism, but I think many of us can relate. Autism has a way of illuminating the subconscious battles we all fight—turning them into physical manifestations that neurotypical people get to keep hidden. This is what happens when someone changes the rules mid-interaction. You can't process the move and perform composure at the same time. You have to pick one.

But if I'm being honest, in the back of my head, one question kept surfacing: Are you threatened by me?

I don't say that with pride. I say it because it was the only explanation that fit. The correction wasn't pedagogical. It wasn't generous. It was a flex—delivered in front of the room, at my expense, over a semantic point that wasn't even correct.

That was the moment I decided I was done. What happened next is a different story.

I did what I do—what we all do—in the days and weeks and months that followed. I replayed it. I thought about what I would have said. What I should have said.

Here's the thing, you fucking nimrod: you absolutely agree with a fact.

To agree doesn't only mean to share an opinion. It means to concur—to admit, to concede, to align your understanding with something external to yourself. A fact is a statement proven true by evidence. And while facts remain objectively true regardless of whether anyone accepts them, agreeing with a fact means actively choosing to incorporate it into how you see the situation. To change yourself in response to reality.

People disagree with facts all the time—by rejecting them, taking them out of context, misinterpreting the data. Agreement isn't passive receipt. It's an act of alignment.

So yes: you can agree with a fact. You can also, apparently, be publicly corrected for doing so by someone who didn't bother to check.

There's a kind of leader who corrects to clarify. And there's a kind who corrects to dominate. The difference isn't always obvious in the moment. But you feel it afterward. One leaves you sharper. The other leaves you smaller.

I have the blessing of working for the first kind now. And I've tried to be the first kind myself. I don't always succeed. But I keep asking myself the question: Did I admit I was wrong this week? Did I change?

If the answer is yes, I know I'm still on the right side of the line.

Anyway. A few months back I saw he got promoted to chief product officer. Good for him.

By all accounts the company is circling the drain now—every piece of insider information I hear says the same thing. But hey. At least he understood the facts.