I didn’t like saying, “I don’t know.”

In grade school, I was diligent in my studies. One of my earliest childhood memories is practicing my handwriting at the dinner table, my mother watching closely to make sure each stroke was near perfect. I remember being so sleepy-tired, yet the habit of burning the midnight oil soon became second nature. I prepared for the next day’s lessons and finished my assignments without fail. 

Graded recitations never found me saying, “I don’t know.” I was often lucky enough to be asked the questions whose answers I knew or at least the ones I had an inkling of, which I would then confidently embellish.

It was also around this time that I grew to love reading. My parents were voracious readers who kept shelves filled with fiction, from romance to thrillers. I fell in love with the stories, particularly those of secret agents untangling webs of conspiracy. It was exciting to unravel the clues and guess the villain before the big reveal. I just wanted to know.

Distracted by all sorts of adolescent pursuits in high school, I discovered that I could get by doing the bare minimum. I read my books and prepared my notes but I lacked motivation. There were simply too many things going on! 

I got my groove again in college, captivated by the wonder that was the Rizal Library. I had never seen anything so beautiful, row upon row of bookshelves leading to all kinds of answers! My hunger for knowledge was in overdrive. I hunted down books through card catalogs, pulling open tiny drawers filled with index cards, one after another. Once again, it was the thrill of the reveal. I wanted to know everything! 

When I became a reporter, knowing was no longer a fancy; it was a necessity. Sources cannot always be trusted to give the full story. With many of them, you had to already know the answers before you could ask the right questions. I welcomed the challenge. There was nothing I liked more than doing research, poring over documents, following paper trails, and hunting for clues.

Once, in a lonely corner of a public agency, I stumbled upon a file cabinet filled with assessment studies and progress reports. It felt like discovering hidden treasure. I churned out one report after another, my editors marveling at my resourcefulness. 

Motherhood brought a whole new level of need to know, this time tangled with a multitude of feelings. I read scores of books on parenting, but nothing could replace the lived experience of it. There was constant pressure to know everything, to have a plan, to be prepared. After all, four human beings depended on me. 

I struggled. 

For many years, I endured. 

I put up a front. I had to be brave. I am the mother. I was supposed to have all the answers. 

Life humbled me. Preparation, I learned, rarely matches reality. It’s impossible to know everything, not all of the time, sometimes not even by half. 

Why did that happen? How did we not see it? What was the problem? What did we do? What could have been done? Why now? Why?

I do not know.

There is humility in acknowledging uncertainty, peace in accepting limits, and joy in being open to more. 

These days, whenever I find myself with something I cannot make heads and tails of, even after all my usual research and analysis, I make peace with myself and move on. I simply do not have everything figured out.

At my age, I am still learning and I must confess that this thought is liberating!

Life will forever be a mystery to me, and you bet that I will never stop looking for clues.