The Day I Forgot That Good Intentions Don’t Excuse Bad Judgment

Sometimes the mistake isn’t what you did—it’s forgetting that not everyone sees the world the way you do.

I fucked up the other day.

Not in a small way. Not in a “whoops, my bad” kind of way.

In a way that made someone I respect genuinely angry with me. And he had every right to be.

I’m sitting here feeling like a bonehead, replaying the whole thing in my head, wondering what the hell I was thinking.

The worst part? I knew better.

I’ve been on The Mainland for over forty years. I’ve worked with people from every background imaginable. I’ve learned—or thought I’d learned—that not everyone operates the way I do.

But last night, I forgot.

And now I’m dealing with the consequences of a mistake I should never have made.

What Happened

I have two friends. Both from similar backgrounds. Both with shared experiences that I thought would make for a great connection.

In my mind, it was obvious: These guys should know each other. They’d get along. They’d have things to talk about. Maybe they’d even become friends.

So in my excitement to connect them, I gave one guy the other’s contact information.

Without asking permission first.

I hit send on that text and felt good about it. Like I’d done something helpful. Something generous.

Then my phone rang.

And the guy whose information I’d shared was pissed. Not annoyed. Not mildly irritated.

Pissed.

And he was right to be.

The Mistake I Should Have Seen Coming

Here’s the thing: I grew up in Hawaii.​

In Hawaiian culture, there’s this concept called ohana. Family. Community. Connection.

You look out for your people. You connect people who might benefit from knowing each other. You share resources, contacts, opportunities.

It’s how I was raised. It’s how I think.

And for forty years on the mainland, I’ve mostly operated that way. Sometimes it works beautifully. Sometimes it creates friction.

But I’ve learned—or again, thought I’d learned—to check myself. To remember that not everyone comes from that same cultural framework.

Not everyone wants to be connected. Not everyone sees unsolicited introductions as helpful.

Some people see it as an invasion of privacy. As presumptuous. As disrespectful.

And last night, I forgot that.

I got excited about the potential connection. I saw the similarities between these two guys. I thought I was doing something good.

And I completely bypassed respect, consideration, and courtesy.

I didn’t ask permission. I didn’t check in. I just assumed my intentions were good enough to justify the action.

They weren’t.

Why This Matters

You might be reading this thinking, “That’s not that big of a deal. You were just trying to help.”

And maybe you’re right. Maybe in your world, in your culture, in your framework, it’s not a big deal.

But that’s exactly the point.

Not everyone operates from the same framework. Not everyone shares the same values about privacy, connection, and community.

And assuming they do—even with the best intentions—is a mistake.

It’s the kind of mistake that damages trust. That makes people question your judgment. That makes them wonder if you really see them or if you’re just projecting your own worldview onto them.

And it’s a mistake I should have known better than to make.

The Lesson I Keep Having to Relearn

This isn’t the first time I’ve made this kind of mistake.

It probably won’t be the last.

Because here’s the uncomfortable truth: I still default to my cultural programming.

Even after forty years of living and working in a different context, my first instinct is still ohana. Still connection. Still “let me introduce you to someone who might be helpful.”

And most of the time, that instinct serves me well. It’s helped me build relationships, create opportunities, support people I care about.

But sometimes, it blinds me.

It makes me forget that my way of seeing the world isn’t universal. That what feels generous to me might feel intrusive to someone else.

That good intentions don’t excuse bad judgment.

This is the lesson I keep having to relearn: Respect the person in front of you more than your idea of what would be good for them.

Ask permission. Check in. Don’t assume.

Even when—especially when—you think you’re helping.

What I Should Have Done

Here’s what I should have done:

I should have reached out to the guy whose information I wanted to share and said, “Hey, I know someone who has a similar background to you. Would you be open to me connecting you two?”

That’s it.

One text. One question. One moment of respect for his autonomy and privacy.

If he said yes, great. I make the introduction.

If he said no, also great. I respect his boundary and move on.

Instead, I skipped that step entirely.

I made the decision for him. I assumed he’d be fine with it. I prioritized my excitement over his consent.

And that’s where I fucked up.

The Cost of the Mistake

I don’t know yet what the full cost of this mistake will be.

Maybe he’ll cool off, forgive me and we’ll move past it. Maybe the relationship will recover.

Or maybe I’ve damaged it permanently.

I won’t know for a while. And that uncertainty is part of the consequence.

But here’s what I do know:

I won’t make this mistake again.

Not with him. Not with anyone else.

I’ve learned—again—that my cultural instincts aren’t universal. That what feels natural to me might feel violating to someone else.

I’ve learned—again—that asking permission isn’t a sign of weakness or overthinking. It’s a sign of respect.

And I’ve learned—again—that I’m not as evolved as I sometimes think I am.

I still have blind spots. I still make mistakes. I still fuck up in ways I should have outgrown by now.

And that’s humbling.

Why I’m Telling You This

I’m not sharing this story because I think I’m special or because my mistake is particularly interesting.

I’m sharing it because I want you to know if you've been reading my stuff for any length of time:

I’m not trying to come across as some "gooroo."

I’m not some enlightened teacher who has it all figured out.

I’m just a guy doing my best. Fucking up sometimes. Trying to own my shit and move forward.

Just like you.

You’ve maybe made similar mistakes. Maybe not this exact one, but something in the same family.

You’ve probably acted on good intentions without thinking through the impact. You’ve probably assumed your way of seeing the world was the right way—or at least the obvious way.

You’ve probably hurt someone you care about because you were moving too fast, too excited, too sure of yourself.

And you’ve probably felt like a bonehead afterward.

Me too.

And that’s okay.

Not because the mistake is okay. Not because the hurt you caused doesn’t matter.

But because mistakes are part of being human.

The question isn’t whether you’ll fuck up. You will.

The question is what you do after.

What I’m Doing After

Here’s what I’m doing:

1. I apologized.​

Not a “sorry you feel that way” non-apology. A real one.

“I fucked up. I should have asked permission before sharing your information. That was disrespectful, and I’m sorry.”

No excuses. No justifications. Just ownership.

2. I’m sitting with the discomfort.

I don’t like feeling like a bonehead. I don’t like knowing I hurt someone I respect.

But I’m not running from it. I’m not making excuses. I’m not trying to minimize it.

I’m letting myself feel the full weight of the mistake.

Because that’s how you learn. That’s how you change.

3. I’m examining the pattern.

This isn’t the first time my cultural instincts have gotten me in trouble. It probably won’t be the last.

But I can get better at catching myself. At pausing before I act. At asking the question instead of making the assumption.

I can build a new habit to override the old programming.

4. I’m accepting that I might have damaged the relationship.

I can’t control how he responds. I can’t force him to forgive me or move past it.

All I can do is own my mistake, apologize sincerely, and give him space to decide what happens next.

If the relationship recovers, great. If it doesn’t, that’s the consequence I have to live with.

5. I’m committing to doing better.

Not just with him. With everyone.

I’m committing to asking permission before sharing someone’s contact information. Every time. No exceptions.

Even when it feels obvious to me that they’d want to be connected.

Because it’s not about what’s obvious to me. It’s about respecting the other person’s autonomy.

The Bigger Pattern

Here’s what I’m realizing as I sit with this:

This mistake is part of a bigger pattern.

The pattern of thinking my way is the right way. The pattern of acting on good intentions without checking in. The pattern of prioritizing my excitement over someone else’s boundaries.

And it’s a pattern I’ve been working on for years.

I’ve gotten better. I’ve learned to pause more often. I’ve learned to ask more questions.

But I’m not done learning.

And maybe I never will be.

Maybe this is just part of being human—constantly bumping up against your own blind spots, making mistakes you thought you’d outgrown, having to relearn lessons you thought you’d already mastered.

Maybe growth isn’t about reaching a point where you don’t fuck up anymore.

Maybe it’s about getting better at recognizing when you do, owning it faster, and adjusting your behavior more quickly.

Maybe it’s about staying humble enough to admit you’re still learning.

What This Has to Do With You

You’re going to fuck up.

Maybe not in the same way I did. Maybe not today. But soon.

You’re going to act on good intentions and hurt someone. You’re going to make an assumption that turns out to be wrong. You’re going to prioritize your perspective over someone else’s reality.

And you’re going to feel like a bonehead.

When that happens, here’s what I want you to remember:

Fucking up doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you human.

What matters is what you do next.

Do you own it? Or do you make excuses?

Do you apologize sincerely? Or do you minimize the hurt?

Do you examine the pattern? Or do you write it off as a one-time thing?

Do you commit to doing better? Or do you keep making the same mistake?

The difference between someone who grows and someone who stays stuck isn’t whether they make mistakes.

It’s whether they learn from them.

The Uncomfortable Truth

Here’s the truth I’m sitting with today:

I’m not as far along as I thought I was.

I thought I’d learned this lesson. I thought I’d outgrown this pattern.

I was wrong.

And that’s humbling. Frustrating. Uncomfortable.

But it’s also clarifying.

Because it reminds me that growth isn’t linear. That you don’t “arrive” at some point where you’ve got it all figured out.

You just keep learning. Keep adjusting. Keep trying to do better.

And sometimes, you fuck up in ways you thought you’d moved past.

And that’s okay.

Not because the mistake is okay. But because the willingness to own it, learn from it, and keep going is what matters.

The Question I’m Asking Myself

Here’s the question I’m sitting with today:

What other blind spots do I have that I’m not seeing yet?

If I could miss something this obvious—something I’ve been working on for years—what else am I missing?

What other patterns am I running that I think are helpful but are actually hurtful?

What other assumptions am I making that I haven’t questioned?

I don’t have the answers yet.

But I’m asking the questions. And that feels like progress.

The Invitation

If you’ve made it this far, here’s what I want to say:

You’re not alone in fucking up.

We all do it. All the time. In ways big and small.

The gurus, the coaches, the people who seem to have it all figured out—they’re fucking up too. They’re just not always honest about it.

I’m choosing to be honest about it.

Not because I think it makes me special. But because I think it makes me human.

And I think you need to know that the people you look up to—the people you learn from, the people you respect—are still learning too.

We’re all just doing our best. Fucking up sometimes. Trying to own our shit and move forward.

And maybe that’s enough.

What mistake are you still learning from?