Grammar Rules We All Learned That Are Actually Wrong

Annie Cosby
January 05, 2025 | 3 min read

If you've ever talked to me for longer than 5 minutes, you've probably heard me say my absolute favorite lesson from my English degree: "Language is fluid."

What exactly does that mean? It means that all of language is made up. It changes constantly based on common usage, popular communication methods, and the world at large.

Yes, your third-grade English teacher lied to you. We all learn a ton of grammar rules that are outdated, mere rumors, or just plain wrong.

English — and all active languages — are constantly evolving, reflecting the ever-changing world around us.

The Fluidity of Language

What’s considered correct grammar today might be outdated or rejected completely tomorrow, and grammar rules shift to accommodate how we communicate.

These changes are influenced by everything from technology (think of texting-speak lol) to globalization (we often "borrow" words from other languages). Social media, for example, has accelerated linguistic change, with abbreviations, emojis, and informal tone becoming widely accepted in both casual and professional settings. Heck, words are added to the dictionary all the time!

Grammar, too, isn’t a rigid set of rules, but a flexible framework that adapts to how people actually speak and write. What was once deemed "incorrect" can become standard over time, as usage patterns become more widespread.

This fluidity makes language both fascinating and challenging, as it reflects not only how we express ourselves but also how we shape and are shaped by the world around us. It also means grammar enthusiasts have to keep up with the times, or risk being wrong.

English Grammar Rules You're Getting Wrong

Here are a few of my favorite English-language grammar "rules" ... that are actually wrong.

1. Ending a Sentence with a Preposition

If you, like me, have ever been corrected by an English teacher when you ended a sentence with a preposition, you probably wasted a good deal of time trying to rewrite the sentence and ended up with something convoluted:

Grammar is nothing to be afraid of.
Grammar is nothing of which to be afraid.

In which case you might be annoyed to learn that you absolutely can end a sentence with a preposition in the English language.

In fact, this is actually a rule from Latin that 17th-century grammarians arbitrarily applied to English for reasons lost to history. They started writing about it, and people believed them.

Seriously.

Learn more about it in this article from Merriam-Webster, one of the most influential and best-known English dictionaries.

 

2. "My Brother & I"

"The same fourth-grade teacher taught my brother and me."

"You mean 'my brother and I.'"

No, I don't. (This is an actual conversation I had recently.)

This over-correction is so common, you'll even see it in published works quite frequently. Why? It's pretty simple:

At some point as a kid, you probably started a sentence with "My mom and me ..." And were promptly corrected: "Actually, it's 'My mom and I...'"

We all had an experience like this early on and duly applied it everywhere:

"The dog is coming with you and I to the park."
"This party is only for my friends and I."
"Will you teach my daughter and I how to play piano?"

But that's applying the rule wrong. To get technical about it, I is subjective — it's used as the subject of a sentence, while me is objective — used as an object.

This is a fun one to learn just for the satisfaction of correcting someone who tries to incorrectly correct you.

 

3. Singular "They"

Think twice before you try to argue against this one. It's pretty straightforward.

While using "they" in a nonbinary sense may be relatively modern, the use of the word in the third-person singular is not only not wrong, it's decidedly not new.

In fact, the Oxford English Dictionary has traced the use of the singular they all the way back to 1375, in a romance called William and the Werewolf.

You know what else used to be a plural pronoun that became singular? You. Yes, you.

TLDR: Werewolves and the singular "they" — neither are new to English literature. So leave users of they alone unless you're going around still using thou.

 

 

4. A vs. An

This is one of my favorites because native English speakers usually do it correctly when speaking but don't even know they're doing it so they sometimes get it wrong when writing. 

Most of us learned that the rule for whether to use "a" or "an" before a word is based on whether the word starts with a consonant or vowel.

I'm about to blow your mind: That's not the rule.

The actual rule for choosing "a" vs. "an" before a word is whether that word starts with a vowel or consonant sound.

After all, you would say "an umbrella" but also "a useless umbrella." Likewise, you'd talk about "a home" but spend "an hour" doing something.

Nifty, huh?

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I’ve spent years writing while secretly fearing that a single misplaced word would expose me — not just as a bad writer, but as a fraud.

My background is originally in photography, and I see it there, too. A photographer I know recently posted a before-and-after comparison of their editing from 2018 versus now, asking if we also saw changes in our own work over the years.

Naturally, we should. If our work is the same, years apart, have we really grown as artists?

So why is that the growing, the process of it, the daily grind of it, is so painful?

So why is that the growing, the process of it, the daily grind of it, is so painful?

The Haunting

Hitting “publish” on an essay or a blog always stirs up insecurity — the overthinking, the over-editing. The fear that someone will call me out for not being a real writer.

I initially hesitated to make writing part of my freelance work. My background is in photography and design. Writing was something I gravitated toward, but I had no degree to validate it. No official stamp of approval.

Like many writers, I started with zero confidence in my voice — agonizing over edits, drowning in research, second-guessing every word.

I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.

I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.

If my words weren’t my own, they couldn’t be wrong. Ghostwriting meant safety — no risk, no vulnerability, just words without ownership.

I still remember the feeling of scrolling to the bottom of an article I had written and seeing someone else’s name, their face beside words that had once been mine.

The truth is, I always wanted to write. As a kid, I imagined it. Yet, I found myself handing over my work, letting someone else own it.

I told myself it didn’t matter. It was work. Getting paid to write should be enough.

But here’s the thing: I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.

I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.

The Disappearing Act

This was true when I was writing under my own name, too. The more I worried about getting it right, the less I sounded like me.

I worried. I worried about how long an essay was (“people will be bored”), finding endless examples as proof of my research (“no way my own opinion is valid on its own”), the title I gave a piece (“it has to be a hook”), or editing out personal touches (“better to be safe than be seen”).

I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting. Advice meant to help only locked me in. It created a sentence rewritten to sound smarter, an opinion softened to sound safer, a paragraph reshaped to sound acceptable.

I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting.

But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.

It took deliberate effort to break this habit. I’m not perfect, but here’s what I know after a year of intentionally letting my writing sound like me:

My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.

But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.

The Resurrection

The drive for acceptance is a slippery slope — one we don’t always realize we’re sliding down. It’s present in the small choices that pull us away from artistic integrity: checking how others did it first, tweaking our work to fit a mold, hesitating before saying what we actually mean.

And let’s be honest — this isn’t just about writing. It bleeds into everything.

It’s there when we stay silent in the face of wrongdoing, when we hold back our true way of being, when we choose work that feels “respectable,” whatever that means. It’s in every “yes” we say when we really want to say “no.”

If your self-expression is rooted in a need for acceptance, are you creating for yourself — or for others? Does your work help you explore your thoughts, your life? Does it add depth, energy, and meaning?

My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.

I get it. We’re social creatures. Isolation isn’t the answer. Ignoring societal norms won’t make us better writers. Often, the most meaningful work is born from responding to or resisting those norms.

But knowing yourself well enough to recognize when acceptance is shaping your work brings clarity.

Am I doing this to be part of a community, to build connections, to learn and grow?

Or am I doing this to meet someone else’s expectations, dulling my voice just to fit in?

The Revival

Here’s what I know as I look back at my writing: I’m grateful for the years spent learning, for the times I sought acceptance with curiosity. But I’m in a different phase now.

I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.

I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.

It’s our differences that drive growth. I want to nurture these connections, to be challenged by difference, to keep writing in a way that feels like me. The me who isn’t afraid to show what I think and care about.

So, I ask you, as I ask myself now:

If no one was watching, if no one could judge, what would you write?

If no one was watching, if no one could judge, what would you write?

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