We Don’t Know All the Answers.
And That’s Normal.
And That’s Normal.
There are moments in life when the most honest answer we can give is a simple one.
I don’t know what’s next.
Not because we haven’t thought enough.
Not because we’re avoiding responsibility.
But because something we relied on before has stopped working, and whatever comes after it hasn’t taken shape yet.
This kind of not knowing rarely arrives with drama. More often, life continues as usual. Work gets done. Responsibilities are met. From the outside, everything looks stable. Sometimes even successful.
Not because we’re avoiding responsibility.
But because something we relied on before has stopped working, and whatever comes after it hasn’t taken shape yet.
This kind of not knowing rarely arrives with drama. More often, life continues as usual. Work gets done. Responsibilities are met. From the outside, everything looks stable. Sometimes even successful.
And yet, inside, there is a quiet sense of strain.
What once felt meaningful now feels heavy. What used to energize us requires effort just to maintain. Passion, if it is still there, begins to hurt. We push through anyway, telling ourselves that doubt is weakness, that uncertainty is something to overcome quickly.
We are taught to treat not knowing as a problem.
A gap to fill. A flaw to correct.
A gap to fill. A flaw to correct.
But in many cases, not knowing is not a failure at all.
It is a phase.
A real one.
At certain points in life, especially in midlife and in long careers, clarity does not come from force or analysis. It arrives after something old loosens its grip. Before the next shape becomes visible, there is an in-between space where answers are not yet available.
When this space is ignored, we often compensate with effort. We work harder. We plan more. We push ourselves to feel the same enthusiasm we once had, even when something inside us has already shifted.
This is usually when passion starts to hurt.
Not sharply. Quietly. Through fatigue. Through loss of curiosity. Through a sense of numbness where excitement used to live.
It is a phase.
A real one.
At certain points in life, especially in midlife and in long careers, clarity does not come from force or analysis. It arrives after something old loosens its grip. Before the next shape becomes visible, there is an in-between space where answers are not yet available.
When this space is ignored, we often compensate with effort. We work harder. We plan more. We push ourselves to feel the same enthusiasm we once had, even when something inside us has already shifted.
This is usually when passion starts to hurt.
Not sharply. Quietly. Through fatigue. Through loss of curiosity. Through a sense of numbness where excitement used to live.
At the same time, there are questions we avoid asking ourselves.
- What if I don’t want this anymore?
- What if I’m good at something that no longer fits me?
- What if staying comfortable is not the same as being safe?
Not because we are afraid of the answers, but because asking them might open doors we are not ready to walk through.
Avoiding these questions is not a weakness. It is often self-protection. It's a way of giving ourselves time until we have enough inner stability to face what might change.
Not knowing, in this sense, is not passive. It is an active restraint. It is the mind and nervous system saying, “Not yet.”
We live in a culture that celebrates decisiveness, certainty, and momentum. But human lives do not unfold in straight lines. They move in seasons. Some seasons are for building and moving forward. Others are for waiting, even when waiting feels uncomfortable.
Avoiding these questions is not a weakness. It is often self-protection. It's a way of giving ourselves time until we have enough inner stability to face what might change.
Not knowing, in this sense, is not passive. It is an active restraint. It is the mind and nervous system saying, “Not yet.”
We live in a culture that celebrates decisiveness, certainty, and momentum. But human lives do not unfold in straight lines. They move in seasons. Some seasons are for building and moving forward. Others are for waiting, even when waiting feels uncomfortable.
Not knowing what’s next does not mean you are behind.
It does not mean you are failing.
And it does not mean you are wasting time.
It does not mean you are failing.
And it does not mean you are wasting time.
It may mean that something important is rearranging itself beneath the surface.
Sometimes, the most meaningful thing we can do is allow that process to continue without rushing it to a conclusion. To acknowledge the uncertainty without turning it into a task. To let the door remain open without forcing ourselves to walk through it.
Clarity will come. But it often arrives later than we expect, and in a form we could not have planned.
Until then, not knowing is allowed.
And more than that, it is normal.
Sometimes, the most meaningful thing we can do is allow that process to continue without rushing it to a conclusion. To acknowledge the uncertainty without turning it into a task. To let the door remain open without forcing ourselves to walk through it.
Clarity will come. But it often arrives later than we expect, and in a form we could not have planned.
Until then, not knowing is allowed.
And more than that, it is normal.
