Actually, I Don't Know Anything
I thought growing older would bring clarity, but it’s only made the questions louder. This is an honest reflection on wisdom, weariness, and reaching for something greater in the midst of not knowing.
I’m older now. They told me I’d be wiser. And maybe I am. But I’m also more tired, more run down, exhausted by life and living it. I have better discernment than I’ve ever had . . . and I’m lonely.
All the things I’ve been through and everything I’ve seen have only taught me one thing. Actually, I don’t know anything.
I can spot red flags faster than ever. I know how to say no without apology. I can hold the complexity of life in both hands without needing to simplify it. I know the difference between real love and performative care, between truth and manipulation, between healing and distraction.
Or do I?
All the things I’ve been through and everything I’ve seen have only taught me one thing. Actually, I don’t know anything.
Every time I round a corner of knowledge, I come upon an even bigger question. They said wisdom would guide me. But they didn’t say it might lead me somewhere lonelier. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere heavier.
People act like aging is this linear path toward enlightenment. But what if it’s more like circling a spiral staircase in the dark? I revisit the same lessons again and again. Sometimes from a different angle, sometimes with a little more grace. But I still stumble. I still doubt. I still ache.
I ache. Not just in the physical ways, though those have become more frequent. I ache in my soul. I ache in that quiet place inside me that wants connection, companionship, meaning. Not surface-level chatter, but deep-down soul contact. The kind that makes you feel known. The kind I used to think would come naturally with time, like all the pieces would fall into place.
I revisit the spiral theme more and more on this slow walk into midlife. Given a long enough life, I’m starting to believe we don’t arrive—we orbit. We loop back to old themes with new eyes. The pain we thought we’d healed, the questions we thought we’d answered, the parts of ourselves we thought were settled; they return, not as failures, but as invitations. Each time around, the view is slightly different, but the terrain is familiar. Maybe this is what life really is: a spiral of remembering, forgetting, re-seeing. A dance with the same ghosts in better lighting.
But the older I get, the more I realize: I don’t know anything. Not really.
The pain we thought we’d healed, the questions we thought we’d answered, the parts of ourselves we thought were settled; they return, not as failures, but as invitations.
I don’t know why some people stay and some people leave. I don’t know why I still carry grief for people who haven’t thought of me in years. I don’t know if love is something you find or something you build. I don’t know what tomorrow holds, or if the version of me I’m trying to become is even possible. I don’t know what “healing” actually means. Just that I’ve been chasing it like a shadow.
And maybe that’s why I’ve been chasing prayer with more frequency, more urgency. Because I am brimming with questions. Why does life carry so much pain? Why do people carry so much resentment? Why does the earth carry so much suffering?
The more I live, the less I know. And in that unknowing, I yearn. For someone, for something, who does know. So I reach out to God. Not always with faith, but with longing. Not always with answers, but with hope that maybe I don’t need to know everything to be held.
If any part of this reflection resonates with you, I’d love to hear your story in the comments or by reply.
Have you ever found yourself more uncertain with age instead of less? What has helped you hold that unknowing? Let me know in the comments.
Thank you for reading.
