But I Didn’t Mean To

One of the newest roles in my life is Auntie.

I have a four-year-old nephew and a nearly two-year-old niece, and getting to watch them move through the world has been one of the most unexpected teachers in my life. Children explore everything with curiosity and joy. They run fast, they ask questions about everything, and they learn the rules of being in community in real time.

When I’m facilitating conversations about anti-racism, I often start with a story about my nephew on the playground.

Picture a group of little kids running around during recess. My nephew takes off across the playground, laughing and sprinting with all the enthusiasm of a four-year-old who has discovered that his legs can carry him anywhere. In the middle of his run, he bumps into another child. She falls over.

He runs over to me, still excited, still laughing, completely unaware that anything serious just happened.

I ask him, “Did you bump into that little girl?”

He says, “Yeah, but I didn’t mean to.”

Anyone who has spent time around children can probably picture this moment. It’s the kind of thing kids do all the time. When I tell this story in trainings, people usually laugh a little and nod along because they’ve seen a version of it before. Maybe they’ve seen it with their own kids, their nieces or nephews, younger siblings, or children in their community.

And then we walk through the next part of the lesson.

Even if he didn’t mean to knock someone over, the next step is still the same.

You stop. You check on the person you hurt. You apologize.

It doesn’t matter that the impact wasn’t intentional. The other child is still sitting on the ground.

This is a lesson we teach children early.

Which is why it’s always interesting to watch what happens when the same principle shows up in conversations about race.

Suddenly, the rules seem to change.

Someone says that a comment or behavior was racist or harmful, and the immediate response becomes:

“That wasn’t my intention.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How was I supposed to know?”

Sometimes those responses are sincere. It may genuinely be true that someone did not intend to cause harm.

But intention and impact are not the same thing.

And somewhere along the way, many of us learned to treat intention as if it cancels out impact.

When we focus only on our intention, the conversation quickly shifts away from the person who was hurt and back toward protecting our identity as a good person. We start explaining ourselves. We start asking questions. We start defending our character.

What gets lost in that moment is the simple relational practice we already teach children.

If you hurt someone, even unintentionally, you stop and acknowledge what happened.

In conversations about racism, that moment becomes especially important.

When someone tells you that something you said or did was harmful, that is not the moment to investigate your innocence. It is the moment to practice accountability.

Accountability does not mean you understand everything immediately.

It does not mean you are not confused.

It does not mean you do not have questions.

It does not mean you are suddenly a bad person.

It means you pause long enough to recognize the impact of what happened.

Sometimes accountability sounds like this:

“That wasn’t my intention, but I hear that it caused harm. I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

That’s it.

Not a speech.

Not a debate.

Not a defense.

Just acknowledgment.

What happens after that moment matters too.

It is not the responsibility of the person who experienced harm to walk you through every step of understanding what happened. Sometimes they may choose to explain more. Sometimes they may not.

Both are valid.

Part of an aspiring anti-racist journey is taking responsibility for your own learning. That might mean reading, reflecting, journaling, talking with trusted people who are also doing this work, or simply sitting with the discomfort long enough to understand where your words or actions came from.

For me, accountability often looks like this.

First, I make space for the person to say what they need to say. Sometimes that is a single sentence. Sometimes it is more. I try to listen without interrupting or immediately defending myself.

Then I apologize.

After that, I sit with the feelings that come up. And if I’m being honest, those feelings can be uncomfortable. Guilt, embarrassment, shame, frustration. None of those emotions feel good. But moving through them is part of the process.

Once that initial reaction settles, I begin asking myself questions.

Why did I respond that way?

What assumption was underneath what I said?

What was I trying to communicate?

What might I be missing?

Sometimes that reflection happens through journaling. Sometimes it happens in therapy. Sometimes it happens in conversation with trusted friends who are also committed to doing this work.

And sometimes the most important step is simply following through on the promise to do better.

Because anti-racism is not proven by having the right words in every moment.

It is practiced in how we respond when we realize we’ve caused harm.

Children learn early that if you knock someone over on the playground, you stop and help them up.

For many of us, the work of anti-racism begins with remembering that lesson.