Last week, a friend asked me if I’m registered as a Democrat or a Republican, and my gut reaction was to respond with “I don’t know.”

For the record, I do know: I am a registered Democrat. And, were I given the chance to register anew today, I wouldn’t change my affiliation.

Yet the question seriously tripped me up. I babbled about how I’m proud to be socially liberal, but sometimes lean conservative, and I even assured him that I’m partial to Republicans because my grandfather is one, and I love him.

I’ve been thinking about why I danced around giving my opinion ever since. Why I preferred to ramble like an idiot instead of just stating the truth. And as I’ve been thinking about that one instance, I’ve realized that I often avoid voicing my opinions. Maybe even more often than not.

Which is weird, because I write for The Crimson’s Editorial Board. My job is to have opinions and to express them. And what’s more, I respect people with opinions. Opinions about fashion. Opinions about Kanye. Opinions about campus news or the presidential race. Well-researched, unapologetic, clear opinions.

You’d think I’d want to share my own.

The thing is, I’m afraid of what will happen if I do but then decide I’m wrong. With the Internet tracking my every move and thought, I feel as if I’m accountable for everything I’ve ever said. I feel like I’m going to be accused of betrayal or ideological inconsistency if, for whatever reason, I decide to change my mind.

More than ever before, we’re able to publicly and globally project our political and social values to whomever cares to read about them. We’ve created social environments where it’s easy to exchange opinions with people who see the world differently than we do. But instead of creating a platform for eye-opening conversation and maximum exposure, we’re fossilizing our opinions—tracking and setting them in stone. Instead of being free to explore ideologies as we please and adopt new ones as we see fit—God forbid!—we’re expected to remain steadfast in our beliefs for the sake of continuity.

So I wonder, at what point, on which topics, and in which scenarios is it okay to take a stance, listen to the opposing rebuttal, and then realize I’m wrong?

These days, I’m not sure I ever can. And that’s a problem.

Consider Hillary Clinton, who may be enduring more criticism than any other modern American for changing her mind. Pundits fairly point out that she’s revised her initial opinion on gay marriage and has now come out in favor of it. Likewise, she has criticized the Trans-Pacific Partnership despite initially promoting it three years ago. At best, she’s accused of triangulating; in the past several months, she’s been called an “inauthentic” flip-flopper who alters her stance on policy issues at the whim of “polls and political pressure.”

Apparently, Clinton’s earlier support of the nascent Trans-Pacific Partnership precludes her from criticizing the deal today. Her previous statements against gay marriage have doomed her to eternal homophobic status. Somehow, it is unimaginable that Hillary Clinton, in the intervening years since she spoke out against gay marriage—or the TPP, or gun control, or immigration—may have realized that she was being insensitive or unsympathetic or simply wrong. And while it might be speculative to propose that this is why she’s changed her stance, it’s no more so than to argue that she’s doing it simply to win votes.

If Clinton is worthy of criticism, it’s not because she has switched her opinions, but rather because she is not willing to openly admit that she’s previously been wrong. I don’t blame her: That’s a scary thing to do.

I wish we’d do it more. I wish we’d humble ourselves when we realize we’re misinformed, or our alliances have shifted, or we’ve simply changed our values. I wish we’d give others the benefit of the doubt when they do the same.

Far be it from me to argue in favor of political party-hopping and its equivalent in other fields. Just as you can’t decide to like the Yankees when they’re playing well and the Red Sox on the rare occasion that they’re playing better, you don’t get to be feminist or liberal or conservative or anti-racism or pro-abortion or Team-Aniston-over-Jolie only when it’s convenient. You don’t get to momentarily espouse an ideology because it is temporarily easy.

I put a lot of pressure on myself to have opinions that are strong and controversial, opinions that will give rise to op-eds that I can publish in The Crimson. Opinions that will divide the student body in half, with a fiery contingent behind me and an even fierier one against me.

But I think we all—me, my peers, my grandparents, and maybe you—often forget that it’s possible to stand by our beliefs and also honestly explore other ideas and try them on for size. We forget that our opponents are smart too, that listening to them is not blasphemy. We forget that considering a thought is not the same as espousing it.

And worst of all, we’ve forgotten that sometimes it’s healthy to change our minds.

Lily K. Calcagnini ‘18, a Crimson editorial executive, is a History & Literature concentrator in Dunster House.