No Excuses, Only Reasons
Excuses are like assholes. Everybody has one and they all stink.
Ninety-nine percent of the failures come from people who have the habit of making excuses.
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Eschewing Excuses
Excuses rise like shadows from the tongue, Soft whispers that steal the wind from the sails, Lulling us with their tender, brittle songs, A comfort, like silk wrapping our travails. The habit forms, as rivers carve the stone, Each small deflection shaping who we are, Till we stand still, though yearning to be grown, Imprisoned by the limits we declare. And yet the path, though steep and rough with thorn, Waits patient for the foot to take its stride, No alibi can make the daylight mourn, No reason keeps the moon from chasing tides. But only those who cast excuses bare Can climb beyond the heights they dare not dare.
I made a mistake. I messed up. I committed a teensy snafu. I done goofed.
Admission and personal accountability appear to make up the line between excuses and reasons. But it’s tricky. Oh so tricky.
How would someone know you aren’t making excuses, only providing reasons? How can you provide a list of events that kept you from your obligation?
You can’t guarantee your actions and your words will be taken as intended. That’s true each time you open your mouth. Doubly so when dealing with the ramifications of those teensy snafus you’ll find yourself committing from time to time.
However, leading with one or more of those statements I began this piece with should go a long way.
Depending on the snafu.
If you’re a surgeon who just broke the world record mortality rate for a single surgery? It’s unlikely you can do much of anything. Not talking may even be your best bet.
Did you spoon in two-and-a-half lumps of sugar instead of two-and-five-eighths? You have a slightly higher chance of being heard and believed than the surgeon, likely.
The thing about excuses is that they’re comfortable. They wrap you up in a warm blanket of self-justification, shielding you from the icy glare of accountability. But reasons—they’re stark, raw, and honest. They hold a mirror up and say, “Hey, this was on you, but you can still fix it.”
Now, let’s be clear—offering reasons is not the same as shifting blame. It's easy to fall into that trap. You might catch yourself saying, "Well, I couldn’t get it done because this person didn’t hold up their end of the bargain" or "I was tired, it was late, the dog needed walking." Are these reasons? Sure. But they start to sound an awful lot like excuses when they’re loaded with avoidance.
True reasons involve reflection. It's that split second where you take stock of your actions, your choices, and own up to where you went wrong. Maybe you did have a bunch of external factors weighing you down, but the honest man—the one I want to be, and the one I want to teach my kids to be—acknowledges that he still could’ve acted differently.
I guess that’s why when I make a mistake (and I’ve made plenty), I try to lead with an apology. A real one. Not the kind of "sorry" that’s followed up with an excuse or a justification. Just a plain, “I messed up. I’ll do better next time.”
It’s easy to get defensive when you’re wrong. Trust me, I know—I’ve been in those shoes more times than I care to count. But here’s the thing: defensiveness doesn’t fix anything.
It doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t meet the mark. It just builds a wall between you and the people around you, separating you from learning what you need to from the situation.
Philosophy, history, literature, even psychology—they all explore this idea because it’s core to being human. We're all trying to justify our actions, whether to ourselves, to others, or to whatever higher power we believe in.
The trick is figuring out when we’re being honest with ourselves and when we’re just trying to squirm out of responsibility.
But learning from those mistakes? That’s where it gets tricky. Because, honestly, we live in a world that encourages excuses. There’s always some external force we can point to and say, “That’s why I couldn’t succeed.” But that’s a cop-out.
One thing I try to hammer home with you crazy kids is that there’s always going to be reasons things go sideways. And it’s easy to let those reasons become your focus, let them be the story.
But they shouldn’t be. You are the story. How you handle those reasons, how you move forward when things don’t go as planned—that’s what defines you.
Excuses? They’re a dead end. They let you stay stuck. But reasons? They’re just the beginning. They’re the first step toward figuring out how to get where you want to go next.
So, yeah, next time you screw up—and you will, we all do—just stop for a second. Ask yourself: Am I offering a reason, or am I just making an excuse? And then, act accordingly. Fix it. Own it. Grow from it.
Look, I know life can feel like it throws a lot at you. There are always things beyond your control—people, situations, pressures. And, yeah, sometimes it feels like you're just caught in a wave, getting pulled under.
But here's the thing I need you to understand: no matter how big the storm, you always have a choice in how you handle it.
I’m not saying the world’s fair. I’m not saying everything’s always your fault. There will be times when you’ll feel like the whole world is against you, and maybe it is. But even then, you’re still the one steering the ship.
The winds may be strong, but you’ve always got a hand on the wheel. And that’s where true strength comes in—not pretending the wind doesn’t exist, but deciding how you're going to sail through it.
I want you to be the kind of person who owns up to your choices, even when the world is trying to pull you in every direction. Sure, sometimes you’ll make mistakes, but when you look back at those moments, don’t just blame the wind or the waves.
Take a hard look at what you could’ve done differently. That's how you grow, how you get stronger. That’s how you become someone people can rely on, someone you can be proud of.
Because the truth is, it's not the easy times that define you—it’s how you act when things get tough. And I want you to grow up knowing that no matter what, you’re the one in control of you.
Life’s not about being perfect; it’s about learning from every stumble, getting back up, and steering a little better next time.
So when things get rough, remember: the storm may not be your fault, but how you weather it always is.
And yes, I ended this piece twice because I wanted to. If that sentence made no sense, ignore it. Or don’t.
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My Dad calls it excusitis.
Great post BTW. Thank you