You know that feeling when you’re mid-argument and your blood is pumping, your jaw is tight, and every fiber of your being is laser-focused on one thing: winning this? Your voice gets that edge. Your examples get sharper. You can feel yourself building to the knockout punch that will end this discussion once and for all.
I was there last week.
A team leader wanted to go on leave but continue signing off on payments while away. My position was crystal clear: you’re on leave, therefore you don’t sign off on anything. It’s not complicated. It’s policy. It’s logical. But they pushed back, explaining how they wanted the sign-offs handled, the particular way it should work.
And something primal kicked in.
This wasn’t about payments anymore. This was about control. About hierarchy. About making sure everyone understood that I am in charge here, and if you decide to do something against what I say, there will be consequences.
I drove that point home like I was hammering a fence post into concrete. Hard. Definitive. Final.
I won.
And then, in the awful silence that followed, I realized I’d lost something far more valuable.
The Hollow Sound of Victory
Here’s the thing about winning arguments: it feels incredible for about ninety seconds. There’s that rush of being right, of having your logic prevail, of establishing dominance. You can almost taste it metallic and sharp, like biting aluminum foil.
But then you look across at the other person.
Maybe their face has gone carefully neutral, that professional mask we all learn to wear when we’ve been bulldozed. Maybe their shoulders have pulled in slightly, their posture now defensive where it was open before. Maybe they’re saying “understood” in that flat tone that means I hear you, and I will never challenge you again.
That’s when the victory starts to curdle.
I saw it in my team leader’s eyes not anger exactly, but something worse. Resignation. The light of collaboration dimming. That subtle shift from partnership to compliance. They’d do what I said, sure. But the relationship? The trust? The willingness to have my back when I needed it most?
I’d just traded all of that for being right about a procedural point.
The Real Cost of Being Right
We’ve all been taught that standing firm on principles matters. That consistency builds respect. That leaders must lead, even when it’s uncomfortable. And yes all of that is true.
But there’s a shadow side to righteousness that nobody warns you about.
When I replayed that argument later (and oh, did I replay it lying awake at 2 AM, stomach churning), I started seeing all the off-ramps I’d blown past. Moments where I could have said, “Help me understand your thinking here.” Places where I could have asked, “What are you concerned might happen?” Opportunities to enforce the boundary while still making the person feel heard, respected, even protected.
Instead, I’d chosen to prove I was in charge rather than be someone worth following.
The policy would have been followed either way. But one path kept a relationship intact. The other path? I’d essentially told a valued team leader that rules matter more than they do. That their judgment isn’t trusted. That asking questions equals insubordination.
Why We Fight Battles We Shouldn’t
Here’s what I’ve learned about these pyrrhic victories: they’re almost never really about the surface issue.
That argument wasn’t actually about leave policies or payment sign-offs. It was about my own insecurity. About needing to feel powerful in a moment when I felt challenged. About some deep, lizard-brain part of me that confused “being questioned” with “being disrespected.”
We fight hardest when we’re most afraid.
Afraid we’ll be seen as weak. Afraid of losing control. Afraid that if we bend even slightly, everything will collapse. So we plant our feet and push back, and in doing so, we push away the very people we need most.
The irony is devastating: the tighter we grip authority, the less of it we actually have.
What Real Victory Looks Like
So what does winning actually mean?
Not the hollow kind that leaves relationships as collateral damage. Not the kind where you’re right but everyone around you is diminished. Not the kind that requires you to dominate to feel secure.
Real victory looks like the policy being followed and the person feeling respected. The standard being maintained and trust being built. The boundary being clear and the relationship growing stronger.
It sounds impossible, doesn’t it? Like trying to hold water in your hands.
But I’ve seen it done. I’ve done it myself, in better moments. It requires something harder than winning an argument it requires setting aside your ego long enough to remember that the person across from you isn’t your opponent. They’re your colleague. Your team member. Someone trying to do their job, just like you.
Real victory might sound like:
“I hear that you want to stay connected to the work while you’re on leave that tells me you’re committed, and I appreciate that. Here’s my concern about signing off on payments while you’re away…”
Or: “Help me understand what you’re worried might happen if someone else handles the sign-offs. Let’s see if we can solve for that.”
Or even: “I need to hold the line on this policy, but I want to make sure I’m not creating problems for you. What would make this work better?”
Notice what’s different? The boundary is still there. The answer might still be no. But the other person isn’t reduced to rubble in the process.
The Relationship Tax We Don’t See
Every time we “win” at someone else’s expense, we pay a tax we don’t notice immediately. That team leader I argued with? They’ll think twice before bringing me a creative solution. Three times before flagging a potential problem. They’ll operate in the letter of the law and never the spirit.
I’ll get compliance, sure. But I won’t get their best thinking. Their initiative. Their willingness to go to bat for me when I need it.
And here’s the really insidious part: these losses compound. That team leader talks to other team leaders. They see how conflicts get handled. A culture slowly forms where people stop taking risks, stop speaking up, stop caring beyond the bare minimum.
All because I needed to win an argument about leave policies.
Sitting in the Discomfort
The morning after that argument, I wanted to justify myself, to replay the argument until I could convince myself I’d done the right thing.
But the truth kept interrupting: I’d been a bully. A technically correct, policy-wielding bully, but a bully nonetheless.
So I did something that: I went back to that team leader and said, “I was too rigid yesterday. I heard your concern, but I didn’t really listen to it. Can we talk about what you were actually trying to solve for?”
Did it hurt? Yes. Did it feel like surrendering my authority? Absolutely.
But you know what happened? That team leader’s shoulders dropped. Their face softened. And we had an actual conversation one where the boundary still existed, but so did mutual respect. Where the policy was maintained, but the person felt valued.
That’s what real winning feels like. Not the adrenaline spike of domination, but the steady warmth of a relationship strengthened under pressure.
The Question We Should Ask
Next time you find yourself in one of those moments blood pumping, jaw tight, ready to demolish someone’s argument pause and ask yourself: What am I actually fighting for here?
To be right? To prove a point? To feel powerful?
Or to move everyone closer to the goal while keeping relationships intact, maybe even strengthened?
Because some victories are just losses wearing a disguise. They feel like triumph in the moment, but they cost you things you can’t afford to lose: trust, collaboration, psychological safety, the willingness of good people to bring you their best work.
I’m still learning this. Still catching myself mid-argument and having to manually override the instinct to win at all costs. Still apologizing for victories that left casualties.
But I’m learning to recognize the taste of a hollow win. And increasingly, I’m choosing something harder and infinitely more valuable: being in relationship with people over being right in the moment.
That, I’m discovering, is what actually winning looks like.
What about you? When have you won an argument but lost something more important? I’d love to hear your stories—the messy, uncomfortable ones we don’t usually admit. Drop them in the comments, and let’s figure this out together.