The Kindness of Not Knowing

There is so much pressure to know.

To know what’s next. To know what’s right. To know who we are, what we want, where we’re going. As if certainty were a virtue. As if clarity were the only sign of strength.

But what if not knowing is also holy?

What if there is kindness in the fog?

Not-knowing softens us. It slows us down. It removes the illusion of mastery and invites humility—not the kind that shrinks, but the kind that opens. It’s the humility of being a single heartbeat in a vast, unknowable universe.

When we admit we don’t know, we stop pretending.

We become teachable. Touchable. Real.

In not-knowing, there is room for wonder. For grace. For truth to arrive unforced. We begin to see that life is not a problem to be solved, but a mystery to be met.

And that maybe the most compassionate thing we can do—for ourselves and for others—is to sit gently in the questions, without rushing to answers.

To say: I don’t know. But I’m here.

And sometimes, that is the most sacred thing of all.