The forest of not knowing
On the constraints and freedom of uncertainty.
I'm uncomfortable sitting in uncertain spaces.
When I type this, my brain just goes "Duh" like it's the most normal observation in the world. Lately, I've been trying to be more comfortable in just stating this kind of obvious. My brain needs to hear it, and my heart needs to accept it.
These spaces mean I don't know where I'm going, and I have little room to think ahead and plan. It means I'm stuck reacting with my immediate, unpolished self — I don't *trust* this self, and the consequences are louder.
Rebuilding it is difficult, because I need to put myself in these spaces of uncertainty, if only to make my way through them, and having the fact that I did serve as evidence that I'm capable. That relationship got lost through a bunch of stresses, spirals, depressive periods and messes. I've been absolutely terrified of falling back down into that place, because it's where that unpolished self felt the smallest — it's where the doubt has been loudest that he was not enough to handle functioning or succeeding.
When someone asks me "what am I scared of?" when I discuss my anxiety, the answer's become "not about the failure - it's about how my brain is going to be unkind to me if I fail." The new thought hitting my brain is the acceptance that I can't build trust with myself if I'm not risking that failure at all.
It's like doing endless chess puzzles without playing an actual match, because losing a match can suck, and I’m anxious about how I’d judge myself.
I adapted myself to believing that planning and thinking ahead are the same as facing the problem, but it's not complete without application. Courage is required to step out of that analysis and into uncertainty: I can be endlessly self-aware of my flaws, reactions and baggage, but the work only sinks in in that environment of risk.
So I try again.
I embrace that the change will happen incrementally, with every breath. I mourn that our brains won’t “just change” and suddenly shun all the things I like, but know I need to get rid of. I won’t just suddenly “snap out of” the things that are serving me, but not in the ways I need to grow.
It’s funny. I’m sitting here going “this is repetitive, I’ve written this before.”
Whether I’m just kind of reaffirming “what I need to do” or writing this for someone who needs to read it, I don’t feel like taking it back now. Writing and publishing this is partially stepping into that uncertainty — the space of putting stuff out there and potentially being judged as cliche, repetitive, or “trying to sound deep.”
When I admit this, I feel like I’m “jinxing” it; like it’s something I’m not supposed to admit, partially because I’m wondering if I’m capable of writing about stuff that isn’t about writing. It’s too “inside baseball.” I’m not providing enough value right now.
All these things are that “planning and thinking ahead” behaviours I talked about before. Planning ahead for “how it’ll reflect on me” for a version of me that’s somehow successful, who’ll be embarrassed about this — the irony is that that person has no chance of developing with my current mindset. I’d know — I’ve been trying to force it to work that way for over a decade now.
In trying to let all those habits go, we arrive back uncertainty: back where we started, here.
Maybe I’ll get more used to being here. Maybe I’ll still hate it, but at least respect it. I just know that my relationship with it needs to change, and bit by bit, I’ll at least learn a bit more about myself in the process.
Header: Anatolii Hrytsenko via Pexels, remixed by me.