THE COST OF CERTAINTY 🤔

WHEN KNOWING TOO MUCH CAN COST US EVERYTHING

Jul 04, 2025

First of all, I would like to wish all my readers from the US a happy Independence Day, wishing you wonderful celebrations as you honour your country’s history and the values of freedom and independence.

The Comfort of Being Right

You may have noticed that lately I’ve been steering away—just a little—from the more overtly political rants. Don’t worry, there’s usually still a wink or a jab tucked in somewhere (old habits die hard), but let’s just say I’m giving my blood pressure and your patience a well-deserved break. Truth is, I can’t not write. That would require a personality transplant. But I can zoom out from the madness now and then, if only to keep the few remaining marbles in my collection from rolling under the proverbial couch.

Having clarified that, let’s talk about something that feels less political and yet deeply personal: our collective addiction to being right.

We live in a time that seems to worship certainty. Certainty sells. Certainty wins elections, builds personal brands, drives likes, clicks, and confident headlines. Ambiguity? That’s for the weak. Doubt? That’s for the uneducated. Reflection? There’s no time for that—people might scroll past.

Certainty is very seductive. It feels like control in a chaotic world. It’s the mental equivalent of slamming a door shut and putting up a sign that says: “Nothing more to see here.” Done. Resolved. Final.

But what is the cost of all this so-called certainty?

So, this post isn’t just about politics or the media, though we’ll get there. It’s also about what certainty does to our friendships, family bonds, and romantic relationships—how it squeezes out curiosity, hardens hearts, and turns conversations into battles where everyone loses.

Certainty as a Survival Mechanism

At its core, certainty is a defence mechanism. The human brain adores predictability—it’s just how we’re wired. In evolutionary terms, certainty kept us alive. When you’re running from predators or deciding whether that unknown mushroom is dinner or death, hesitation is a luxury you simply cannot afford. Knowing what is safe, what’s dangerous, and what can be eaten without ending up as a cautionary tale was—quite literally—a matter of life or death.

Fast forward to modern life, and while we’re (mostly) no longer dodging sabre-toothed tigers or guessing if a berry is poisonous, our brains haven’t quite yet caught up - we are still cave people. The threats today are psychological, ideological, emotional. But they still trigger the same primal instincts. We crave clarity. We’re uncomfortable with ambiguity. And so we build castles of certainty in the sandstorms of our lives, convinced that if we just know for sure, we can finally feel safe.

Certainty becomes armour. It’s what we wear when we walk into uncertain workplaces, fractured friendships, or a world seemingly gone mad. If we can be sure of something—anything—it feels like we have at least a semblance of control, even if it’s just an illusion.

Social media, for instance, has turned certainty into a kind of performance art. The snappier the statement, the more engagement it earns. Doubt is not a good look on Instagram. You rarely see posts that say, “I’m still thinking about this” or “I’m conflicted.” Instead, we get hot takes, not half-formed thoughts. We’ve mistaken volume for truth and confidence for wisdom.

And let's be honest—certainty feels good. It’s a warm blanket in the cold winds of chaos. It says: “I’ve figured it out. I’m safe here.” It offers belonging to a group, a cause, a belief system that doesn’t require us to question too much. Just agree, repeat, defend.

But here’s the twist: the same instinct that once kept us alive can now keep us small. It can close our minds, lock us into echo chambers, and turn relationships into rigid contracts rather than living, breathing connections. It can make us hostile to growth—ours and others'.

So while certainty may be our brain’s default setting, it’s not always our soul’s best friend. Sometimes, survival mechanisms outlive their usefulness. And that’s when they start costing us more than they protect.

Certainty vs. Connection

Here’s where it gets tricky. Certainty may protect the ego—but it kills connection.

Think about the last time you tried to talk to someone who knew they were right. Not just confident, but downright immovable. It’s like speaking into a wind tunnel where your words fly in and get shredded before they land. These aren’t conversations—they’re chess matches where each person is just waiting to say “Checkmate.”

And here’s the punchline: we’ve all been that person at some point. Let’s not pretend otherwise.

In families, certainty wears the mask of old stories. “You always do this.” “You never cared.” “That’s just who you are.” We cling to outdated scripts, long after the characters have grown and changed—if only someone would bother to notice. There’s no room for redemption when certainty has declared the case closed.

In friendships, certainty becomes a silent executioner. One disagreement—political, moral, or just a difference in perspective—and boom: unfollow, unfriend, uninvited. Years of shared laughter dissolve in the acid bath of a single assumption. There’s a phrase for this now: "cancel culture," but let’s not get too distracted by labels—it’s about the death of nuance.

And in romantic relationships? Certainty is intimacy’s silent killer. It whispers things like “I know what you’re going to say,” or “You’re just being dramatic,” or worse, “This is exactly why we always fight.” When we assume we know our partner’s every move, motive, or mood, we stop listening. We stop being surprised. And love, without curiosity, becomes routine at best—and resentment at worst.

Certainty shuts the door on wonder. And wonder is what makes us lean in. It’s what makes us ask questions like, “What did you mean by that?” or “Have you changed your mind?” or “Can I see this from your side?”

When we lose wonder, we don’t just lose connection—we lose the very thing that makes relationships alive. Because relationships aren’t facts. They’re stories in progress. And nothing kills a story faster than someone insisting they already know the ending.

Connection requires a kind of vulnerability that certainty can’t accommodate. It asks us to loosen our grip, admit we might be wrong, and stay present with someone else’s truth—even if it unsettles our own.

So the next time we feel the need to win a conversation, maybe the better question is: What do I stand to lose by not listening?

Spoiler alert: it’s usually more than we think.

The Illusion of Moral High Ground

One of the most dangerous mutations of certainty is when it puts on a halo.

We don’t just believe we’re right—we believe we’re righteous. And that’s where things really start to unravel. Because if we are on the side of truth, justice, and all that’s good and holy… then anyone who disagrees with us must be, by definition, on the side of ignorance, evil, or worse—bad taste.

Welcome to the illusion of the moral high ground. It’s not just a hill to die on, it’s a hill we insist others climb before we will even talk to them. It’s where nuance goes to die, and where empathy is replaced by purity tests.

Today, it’s not enough to have an opinion. You need to have the right opinion, served with the appropriate tone, hashtags, disclaimers, and preferably accompanied by a carousel post of infographics from a source your particular echo chamber approves of.

But real morality—real integrity—doesn’t scream its name. It doesn’t need to win arguments at dinner tables or perform outrage for clicks. Real morality is quiet. Often uncomfortable. It’s the space where we admit, “I don’t know everything,” or “Maybe I misunderstood,” or “Perhaps I am wrong.”

The illusion of moral superiority also does something deeply tragic: it fractures relationships beyond repair. It turns complex people into caricatures. It says, “You voted for that, so I know everything about you.” It says, “You didn’t post about this, so clearly you don’t care.”

It’s a performance, but the audience is often just our own reflection.

In relationships—personal, familial, or otherwise—this form of certainty is especially lethal. It’s one thing to feel strongly about an issue. It’s another to weaponise that belief to shame someone you love. You might win the moral argument, but lose the actual person.

Certainty that poses as morality can’t tolerate contradiction. It needs clean lines, good guys and bad guys, saints and sinners. But real life? Real love? It’s messier than that. It always has been.

So maybe the next time we feel our moral superiority rising like a tide, we pause. We breathe. We ask: Am I defending something valuable or just trying not to feel vulnerable?

Because vulnerability is where connection actually begins. And that is a far better hill to stand on than one made of smug certainty.

The Quiet Strength of Uncertainty

We don’t often associate uncertainty with strength. It’s not glamorous. It doesn’t make for flashy speeches or viral tweets. But perhaps it’s time we rewrite that narrative – you know how much I enjoy that.

What if true strength lies not in having the answers, but in asking better questions?

Uncertainty gets a bad reputation. It’s seen as indecision, weakness, or worse—a lack of conviction. But uncertainty, when grounded in curiosity, is anything but weak. It’s the birthplace of humility, empathy, and transformation. It’s what allows relationships to evolve, people to grow, and society to inch forward, even if it stumbles along the way.

Think of the strongest people you know. Odds are, they’re not the ones yelling the loudest or delivering hot takes at every turn. They’re the ones who can sit in discomfort. Who listen more than they speak. Who can say, “I don’t know—but I’d like to understand.”

There is a kind of quiet heroism in that.

Uncertainty creates space for others and for ourselves. It allows us to change our minds, to shift our stance, to say, “I used to think one thing, and now I’m learning something new.” That’s not a character flaw. That’s growth. And yet, in our current climate, changing your mind can feel like a betrayal of your identity, your tribe, your brand.

We need to reclaim uncertainty as an act of integrity.

In relationships, embracing uncertainty means not rushing to conclusions. It means asking before assuming. It means noticing when our partner, friend, or family member surprises us, and welcoming that surprise, rather than resenting it.

“I didn’t expect that from you” can either be the start of judgment… or the beginning of discovery.

And beyond the personal? Imagine a public discourse where uncertainty wasn’t mocked but respected. Where leaders could say, “We’re still learning,” and be met with understanding, not outrage. Where the phrase “I’m not sure” opened a door instead of shutting one.

Of course, there are moments for firm beliefs. For drawing lines. But the healthiest convictions are those that have been examined, stretched, and sometimes even broken, to then be rebuilt with loving care.

So no, uncertainty isn’t weakness. It’s not a flaw to be corrected. It’s a compass pointing to something deeper. Something often worth exploring.

Because in a world shouting for certainty, choosing curiosity might just be one of the bravest things we can do.

In Relationships, Curiosity is Love

If there’s one place where certainty does the most damage quietly, insidiously, and over time, it’s in our closest relationships.

Not the noisy debates with strangers online. Not the political sparring over dinner. But the silent erosion that happens between people who once promised to understand each other—and somehow stopped trying.

Certainty in relationships looks like assumptions hardening into truths. It’s the “I already know what you’re going to say” before the other person opens their mouth. It’s the emotional shorthand that becomes emotional laziness. And before we realise it, the person we fell in love with or grew up alongside has been reduced to a few predictable lines in a script we keep rehearsing and repeating.

Certainty says, “You always do this.” Curiosity asks, “Is something different today?”

The former locks us in place. The latter opens a window.

In romantic partnerships, we often assume we know our partner so well that there’s nothing left to discover. But people change. Quietly, slowly, sometimes imperceptibly. And when we stop being curious—when we stop asking, “What are you dreaming about these days?” or “What’s been on your mind lately?”—we stop seeing the person in front of us. We relate to a version of them that may no longer exist.

The same happens in family dynamics. Children grow up. Parents age. Siblings evolve. But the roles we’ve assigned each other rarely get updated. The bossy older sister, the black sheep cousin, the overprotective mother—we speak to the memory, not the moment.

Friendships, too, can wither under the weight of assumed understanding. A friend who takes a different path—whether it's political, spiritual, or personal—suddenly feels like a stranger. Not because they became someone new, but because we refused to meet them where they are.

Curiosity in relationships is love made visible.

It’s the willingness to say, “Tell me again.” “Help me understand.” “I didn’t know that mattered so much to you.”

It’s sitting in discomfort together and allowing space for reinvention.

It’s accepting that people are not fixed, that love isn’t about certainty but about the dance of rediscovery and change.

And perhaps most of all, curiosity reminds us that even when things are familiar, they are never final. There is always more to learn, if we’re willing to listen with the same openness we once had when everything was new.

Because at the heart of connection—whether romantic, platonic, or familial—is not knowing everything. It’s the choice to keep learning.

Certainty builds walls. Curiosity builds bridges. And love, real love, walks across those bridges every day.

🎶My Song for you

I recently discovered this song and am in love with it. It is both tender and timeless… Romeo’s Tune by Steve Forbert

For more good music, go to this Spotify playlist where you can find all the songs from the Change & Evolve Letters!

📚My Poem for you

Is by Emily Dickinson (1830—1886)

I dwell in Possibility

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

I dwell in Possibility –

A fairer House than Prose –

More numerous of Windows –

Superior – for Doors –

Of Chambers as the Cedars –

Impregnable of eye –

And for an everlasting Roof

The Gambrels of the Sky –

Of Visitors – the fairest –

For Occupation – This –

The spreading wide my narrow Hands

To gather Paradise –