I've said “I don't know” more times than I can count. And for a long time, I thought that was something to apologize for.
It isn't.
Saying “I don't know” is not weakness. It's not surrender. It's not indecision. It's honesty about where your evidence and your understanding actually stop — and that's a more useful place to stand than somewhere you only think you are.
I'd rather admit I don't know something than pretend to have an answer just because certainty feels better in the moment. Certainty is comfortable. But comfortable and correct aren't the same thing.
Certainty is comfortable. But comfortable and correct aren't the same thing.
Here's a question I try to ask myself when I hold a strong belief about something: What evidence would change my mind?
If I can answer that honestly — if I can say “here's what would make me reconsider” — then I'm still evaluating the belief. I'm still thinking. But if the truthful answer is “nothing,” then I should at least be honest with myself that I'm no longer treating it as a question. I've already decided, and I'm just looking for confirmation.
That's not thinking. That's defending.
This applies everywhere. Religion. Science. Politics. Business. Community problems. The argument you had last Tuesday. People inherit conclusions all the time — before they've ever examined the evidence behind them. I've done it. You've probably done it. We absorb beliefs from the people around us, from the culture we grew up in, from the first explanation we heard that made sense. And then we stop asking.
Take religion as an example — not to argue about it, but because it's one of the places where this gets genuinely hard. Questions about faith, evidence, certainty, and belief don't have easy answers. I'm not going to tell you that any particular worldview has been proven right or wrong. I'm not qualified to do that, and I'm not sure anyone is.
What I will say is this: I'm open to the possibility that there is something greater than humanity, some deeper reality behind existence that we don't fully understand. I don't know what that is. I'm not going to pretend I do. But I'm also not going to close the question just because it's uncomfortable to leave open.
I'm open to the possibility that there is something greater than humanity. I don't know what that is. I'm not going to pretend I do.
What I've noticed is that the people who've taught me the most weren't the ones who had every answer. They were the ones who were still genuinely curious. They'd been around long enough to know a lot — and humble enough to know that wasn't the same as knowing everything.
Someone can be very knowledgeable and still be wrong. Partial knowledge becomes dangerous when someone mistakes it for complete knowledge. I've seen it in technical fields. I've seen it in business. I've seen it in community work. The person who knows the most about one part of a problem sometimes has the hardest time seeing the rest of it.
Exposure to different people, cultures, professions, ideas, and ways of seeing the world should make us more curious — not more certain that we already have every answer. Every room I've worked in has taught me something the previous room didn't. That's not a coincidence. Different people hold different pieces of the same problem.
There's also a difference between two things that can sound similar:
“I don't believe you.”
And:
“I want to understand why you believe that.”
The first one ends the conversation. The second one starts one. Asking “why?” should be an invitation, not a challenge. The goal shouldn't be winning. The goal should be leaving with a better understanding than we had when we sat down.
Good collaboration — real collaboration — starts when people can put ego aside, compare what they actually know, identify where they genuinely disagree, and investigate the problem together. Not perform certainty at each other. Investigate.
The goal shouldn't be winning. The goal should be leaving with a better understanding than we had when we sat down.
If I had to choose between standing beneath a giant sign that said I DON’T KNOW and one that said I HAVE ALL THE ANSWERS — I'd take the first one every time. Not because I'm proud of not knowing. But because the second sign is almost always a lie, and I'd rather be honest about where I'm starting from.
I don't know. Let's find the answer together.
That's not a weakness. That's an invitation.
And it connects to everything else I try to do — in art, in technology, in community work, in consulting. The best things I've been part of started with someone willing to say they didn't have it figured out yet. The worst ones started with someone who was sure they did.
Let's build something together.