When I was younger, everything felt simple. Not necessarily easy, but simple in the sense that there was always a next step. A clear direction. A right way to do things.

If I studied, I’d pass the test. If I practiced, I’d get better at my sport. If I followed the rules, I’d stay on track. Life moved forward in a straight line, like climbing the rungs of a ladder—one foot after the other, up and up and up.

I didn’t question this structure because it was all I knew. And honestly? It was comforting. The certainty of it all. The feeling that as long as I did what I was supposed to, things would work out. Teachers handed out syllabi at the start of the year, neatly mapping out what was coming. Coaches had game plans. Parents had advice. Even when things got hard, there was always a framework. A way forward.

I think about how movies portray childhood memories—colors cranked up to impossible brightness, the world rich and saturated, full of warmth. Because when you’re a kid, things feel solid. The rules make sense. The paths are laid out. You don’t realize how much of your life is being decided for you, and in a strange way, that makes things feel safe.

Then, at some point, it all disappears. The structure. The guideposts. The sense of certainty. And suddenly, life stretches out in front of you like a blank map, and you’re holding the pen, unsure of what to draw.

That moment—the moment you realize no one is handing you the next step anymore—is terrifying. Because if there’s no clear “right” choice, what’s stopping you from making the wrong one?

There wasn’t a single moment when it all changed. It happened gradually, like the end of a song fading out until you realize there’s no music playing anymore.

At first, I kept waiting for the structure to return. I thought maybe adulthood had its own version of lesson plans and progress reports, that someone—anyone—would step in and hand me a checklist of what to do next. But that never happened. Instead, I was met with an unsettling quiet.

No more automatic next steps. No more guarantees.

And with that silence came an unexpected weight.

I started second-guessing everything. Not just the big, obvious life decisions, but the small, everyday ones too.

Was I supposed to stay where I was or move? Take this job or hold out for something better? Was I wasting time? Making the wrong choices? Shouldn’t I know what to do?

I realized then that I had spent years assuming every decision had a right answer. That life was a series of multiple-choice questions, and if I just looked hard enough, I’d find the correct one. But now, it felt like I was staring at a blank page, trying to write in pen, afraid of messing it up.

No one told me how heavy uncertainty could be.

And the worst part? I started believing that not knowing meant I was failing. That if I wasn’t moving in a clear direction, I must be doing something wrong. I looked around at other people—some who seemed so sure of their path—and wondered why I couldn’t feel that same clarity.

But then I asked myself: What if they’re just as unsure as I am?

What if we’re all just making it up as we go?

For so long, I thought the goal was to figure out the right path. To make the right choices. To avoid the wrong ones at all costs. But lately, I’ve started wondering: What if there isn’t a right choice? What if there’s just… a choice?

That question should feel freeing, but for a long time, it paralyzed me.

I became so obsessed with making the “right” move that I stopped moving altogether. Every option felt like a risk. If I picked wrong, I’d waste time, waste effort, maybe even waste years. What if I chased the wrong career? Moved to the wrong city? Invested in something that wouldn’t pay off? Every path had its unknowns, and instead of picking one, I stood still, overthinking every possibility.

And the longer I stood still, the harder it became to take any action at all.

I convinced myself that not deciding was better than making the wrong decision. That staying in place was safer than stepping in the wrong direction. But that’s the thing about waiting—nothing changes. The fear doesn’t go away. The answers don’t magically appear. You just sit in the same uncertainty, hoping for clarity that never fully comes.

At some point, I had to ask myself: What if the only way forward is to move, even if I’m not sure? What if the worst outcome isn’t choosing wrong, but never choosing at all?

So maybe the next thing isn’t the “right” thing. Maybe it’s just something. A step. A choice. A movement.

And maybe that’s enough.

At some point, I realized that life wasn’t black and white—but it also wasn’t gray. Gray implies balance, a predictable mix of extremes. Something stable. But that’s not what life feels like. Life is more like an off-white—uncertain, shifting, something that looks different depending on the light.

I used to think uncertainty was something to fix. A problem to solve. But what if uncertainty isn’t the enemy? What if it’s just part of being alive?

The truth is, I don’t know if I’ll ever feel 100% certain about anything. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe I don’t need to know. Maybe the point isn’t to eliminate doubt but to learn how to exist alongside it. To accept that I can move forward without having every answer.

Some days, that’s easier said than done. On those days, I remind myself:

• Not knowing doesn’t mean I’m lost. Just because I don’t see the full path doesn’t mean I’m not on one.
• No decision is final. Even if something doesn’t work out, I can pivot. I can start over. I can change my mind.
• Other people don’t have it all figured out either. Some just got better at pretending.
• Waiting for clarity won’t bring clarity. The only way to figure out what works is to try something. Anything.

I used to think confidence meant being sure of everything. Now, I think it means being okay with uncertainty.

Life is never going to be neat or obvious. It’s never going to fit into clear categories of right and wrong. But maybe that’s the beauty of it—maybe life is meant to be lived in the off-white.

I think back to all the times I agonized over a decision, convinced that one wrong move would ruin everything. I stressed, I overanalyzed, I played out every worst-case scenario in my head. And yet, when I look back now, most of those choices—whether they turned out “right” or not—don’t carry the same weight they once did.

Some of the things I worried about didn’t matter at all. Other things didn’t go how I expected, but they still led me somewhere meaningful. And the most surprising part? Some of my so-called “mistakes” ended up being the best things that ever happened to me.

At the time, I didn’t see it that way. At the time, I was convinced I had taken a wrong turn. But looking back, I can see that every decision—good, bad, uncertain—shaped me.

The job I took because I thought I had to? It taught me what I didn’t want.

The opportunity I turned down out of fear? It made me realize I needed to be braver.

What I once saw as missteps were actually just steps—part of the path, part of the process.

I wonder what choices I’m agonizing over right now that, in a few years, I’ll see differently. I wonder if I’ll laugh at how much I overthought things, how I was so afraid of getting it wrong when, in the end, everything was just unfolding the way it needed to.

It makes me think: If I’m going to look back someday and see that everything worked out one way or another, then why not trust that now? Why not let go of some of the pressure?

Maybe I don’t need to know if I’m making the perfect decision. Maybe I just need to make a decision and trust that I’ll figure the rest out along the way.

I used to believe that one day, I’d wake up and just know. That clarity would arrive like a neatly wrapped package—here’s your answer, here’s your direction, here’s the certainty you’ve been waiting for.

But that day never came.

And I don’t think it ever will.

Because life doesn’t work like that. There’s no singular moment where everything clicks into place. No guarantee that the path we’re on is the one we were “meant” to take. No cosmic confirmation that we’re doing this whole life thing correctly.

And maybe that’s not a bad thing.

Maybe the goal isn’t to have everything figured out. Maybe the goal is to get comfortable not knowing. To make peace with the ambiguity instead of fighting it. To stop treating life like a problem to solve and start seeing it as something to experience.

So what if I don’t know what’s next? So what if I don’t have a perfect plan? I’m still here. I’m still moving. I’m still learning.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe I’m enough. Right now. In the middle of the uncertainty. In the middle of the mess. In the middle of the off-white.