The Small Version

On the Courage it Takes to Not Know

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There’s a particular kind of alone-ness that comes with trying something new.

It doesn’t matter if you’re launching a startup, learning to paint at 60, finally writing the book you’ve been carrying around in your chest for years, or just trying to become a slightly better version of yourself through some habit you’ve committed to for the fourteenth time. If any of you have said to yourself, this is the year I am going to do that thing — then you know what I’m talking about. And for those of you who haven’t said it but thought it anyway, well, you know too.

It’s the loneliness of standing at the edge of something unformed, something that doesn’t exist yet, and being the only one who can see it — even when you can’t see it very clearly yourself.

a small watercolor sketch from my daily practice

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I’m in that place right now with something I’m building. And I’ve been trying to outrun the feeling — researching, planning, pivoting, strategizing, filling notebooks and spreadsheets and pitch decks as if the right framework will finally make the uncertainty go away.

It won’t. I know that now.

I am, by my own admission, an expert at starting things. When I was in high school, my mother once said to me, you know, you could be really good at one or two things if you didn’t try to do so many. Ouch.

I thought my life was pretty amazing — three sports per year, musical instruments, dance, lots of friends, clubs, leadership. The extroverted, scattered, happy kid. I was trying lots of things on, and it suited me.

But what I’ve come to understand is that the curiosity and wonder underneath all that scattered energy — that’s not the problem. That’s the engine. Once you realize who you are, you can make it work for you. The stick-to-it-ness, even when it’s not sexy or exhilarating anymore, is what the curiosity is actually in service of. It deserves follow-through.

And still. I won’t pretend it’s not lonely, because it is. There are days when I wonder why I’m spending any time at all on this.

But then I remember — the wonder I felt meeting artisans in India who spend a day and a half weaving a single basket to feed and educate their children. The women leaders I met in Cambodia who have put more than 200 women to work making beautifully designed bags from upcycled waste, and have been at it for 20 years. The founder of a blanket brand whose model — donate one for every one sold — is not only admirable, it’s hard. There are millions of makers and entrepreneurs doing similar work, quietly, stubbornly, beautifully.

That’s what keeps the small voice alive.

Imagine weaving day after day to perfect your craft, vocation and livelihood.

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We live in a culture that rewards having answers. Confidence reads as competence. A clear roadmap signals seriousness.

We’re taught early that not knowing is a weakness to hide, not a truth to tell. So we perform certainty even when we’re flailing. We present our best face even when we’re scared. We smile and say it’s going great when what we really mean is: I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing, and I could really use someone to think alongside me.

Why can’t we just say that?

I’ve been thinking about how much energy we spend managing other people’s perception of our struggle — and how little we’d need to spend if we just told the truth. Not the polished truth, jut the actual one.

You know, it might sound like this - I started something and I don’t know if it’s working.

Or how about this: I made a commitment and I’m not sure I can keep it. I’m trying something I’ve never tried before and some days I really want to quit.

I can only speak for myself about this feeling (though maybe you’ve felt something similar) and I can say that the moment you say these things out loud - to a friend, to a stranger, in a journal, even just to myself — something shifts. The weight doesn’t disappear, but it redistributes. It becomes something I’m carrying and shifting from side to side, like the grocery bags we hauled home before the snow storm yesterday.

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There is a small voice underneath all the noise.

There is a hum underneath the self-doubt and the comparing and the fear of what people will think if this doesn’t work. It’s not dramatic. It doesn’t make promises. It just says, quietly, persistently - keep going. You don’t have to know the answer today.

That voice doesn’t care how old you are or how many times you’ve tried before or how successful you might have been. It doesn’t care whether the timing is right. It just knows that something in you is worth seeing through.

You don’t have to have it figured out to move forward. You don’t have to be certain to be committed. You just have to be willing to be honest — with yourself first, and then maybe with one other person — about where you actually are.

That’s not a weakness. That is, I think, the whole point.

So if you’re in the middle of your own unformed thing — your new beginning, your scary pivot, your fourteenth attempt at the habit that matters — the not-knowing is not a detour. It might be exactly the path.

And the small voice? It’s in there. Listen for it, and then take comfort knowing that that voice is speaking to others, like me. In fact, she’s kind of loud and annoying these days.