I was talking to my daughter recently and found myself saying something that would have been unimaginable for most of my life:
"I don't need certainty the way I used to."
The moment the words came out of my mouth, I realized how much I had changed.
For most of my life, I thought I needed certainty because I was organized. Responsible. Thoughtful. Strategic.
Now I understand something different.
I needed certainty because I grew up in uncertainty. I didn't know I needed to become comfortable with uncertainty.
When uncertainty is woven into your childhood—when the ground beneath you never quite feels stable—you become very good at scanning the horizon.
You learn to anticipate. To predict. To analyze. To figure out what's coming before it gets here.
You become a person who needs answers.
You need to know where the relationship is headed.
You need to know what someone means.
You need to know whether they're staying or leaving.
You need to know if you're safe.
You need to know what comes next.
What I didn't understand for many years was that my pursuit of certainty wasn't actually about information.
It was about emotional safety. It was a need to be comfortable in uncertainty.
If I could just understand everything, define everything, and predict everything, maybe I could finally relax.
The problem is that life doesn't work that way.
And neither does love.
For years, I spent enormous amounts of energy trying to understand people. Trying to understand relationships. Trying to understand what someone felt, what they wanted, what their behavior meant, and whether they were going to choose me.
I thought clarity would come from figuring them out.
What I've discovered instead is that healing doesn't eliminate uncertainty.
Healing changes your relationship to it.
Life is still uncertain.
People are still unpredictable.
Love is still messy.
The future is still unknown.
The difference is that uncertainty no longer feels like an emergency. Having no urgency is being comfortable in uncertainty.
That's been one of the most profound shifts in my healing journey.
Recently, I found myself reflecting on a man who has meant a great deal to me over the years.
In the past, I would have spent countless hours trying to determine exactly what he felt, what his silence meant, whether he would return, whether he loved me, whether he was capable of creating something with me.
Now I find myself saying something very different:
"If he shows up, I'll decide what I want then."
That's it.
No future-tripping.
No prediction.
No attachment.
Just presence.
And surprisingly, that's brought me more peace than certainty ever did.
At the same time, I'm standing in one of the biggest transitions of my adult life.
I've lived in San Diego for thirty years.
I've lived in the same house for twenty-six years.
This is the house where my children grew up.
This is the house that held my marriage.
This is the house that held holidays, heartbreaks, celebrations, ordinary Tuesday afternoons, and decades of memories.
And now I'm preparing to leave it behind.
Not forever. Not permanently.
But preparing to spend more of my time in Sedona and return to San Diego once a month.
As I sit in this house alone, with fewer obligations than I've had in years, I find myself surrounded by memory.
Not just memories of people.
Memories of entire chapters of my life.
And what I've noticed is that when we're standing at the edge of a major life transition, our instinct is often to demand certainty. To urge being comfortable in uncertainty.
What's next?
Will I be happy?
Will I regret this?
Will I ever see that person again?
Will another relationship come along?
Will I feel at home somewhere else?
These questions arise naturally during seasons of change and personal growth.
But maybe healing isn't having those answers.
Maybe healing is being willing to walk forward without them.
I don't know exactly what my life in Sedona will look like.
I don't know if I'll ever see certain people again.
I don't know what relationships may enter my life in the future.
I don't know how I'll feel six months from now.
And for perhaps the first time in my life, I can honestly say:
That's okay.
Not because I don't care.
Not because it doesn't matter.
But because I've learned that uncertainty is not the same thing as danger.
The little girl who grew up needing certainty was trying to protect herself.
The woman I am today is learning something different.
She is learning to trust herself.
Trust that whatever arrives, she'll meet it.
Trust that she doesn't need all the answers before taking the next step.
Trust that life can unfold without being controlled.
And maybe that's what healing really is.
Not certainty.
But the ability to remain open, grounded, and present in the absence of it.
For most of my life, I thought healing would feel like finally knowing.
What I've discovered is that healing feels much more like finally being okay not knowing.
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