In Progress, On Purpose: Embracing the Beauty of Not Knowing

 

There are seasons in life when everything feels like it is falling apart at the same time. 

I know this because I lived through one. Or maybe many. 

There was a time when I didn’t recognize myself anymore. When I experienced the worst of married life, it broke something in me that I thought would never heal. I fell into a slow, heavy darkness, the kind that sits on your chest and makes it hard to breathe. Depression, anxiety, panic attacks… they became my shadow. Most days, I felt like I was disappearing quietly, hoping someone would notice but also wanting to hide.

I locked myself away from the world, thinking silence could protect me. It didn’t, but somehow, I survived it. Somehow, I learned to stand up again, shaky but standing.

And just when I thought I was finally moving forward, life tested me again.

I decided to take a rest from the world, from everyone.

I resigned from my job and spent months doing nothing but trying to breathe again, believing my savings would be enough to keep me going. I moved to another city, far from family and friends, thinking it would be a fresh start, a step forward, a place where I could rebuild myself quietly. 

But when I finally felt ready to work again, everything became once again difficult. I applied everywhere, sent countless resumes, waited and waited. It felt like life was pulling me back to where I had already struggled, like no matter how far I moved, I was still stuck in the same place. 

I found work, but the salary was barely enough. Bills kept piling up like waves that wouldn’t stop coming. I couldn’t even help my parents the way I wanted to. Some days, I couldn’t even help myself. I learned how to count coins at the end of the week, choosing between food I wanted and food I could afford. Most of the time, I chose the cheaper one. 

Then came the hardest part, being forced to go back home because I could no longer afford rent and other expenses. It felt like a quiet failure, even if people said it wasn’t. And in the middle of all of that, I learned I had PCOS. The kind that makes having a baby difficult… and painful in ways that aren’t just physical. My partner and I wanted to try, but medication was expensive, and I was already drowning in what I needed to pay.

And just when I thought I had no more bad luck to give, my laptop, my only source of income, my bread and butter, broke. Completely. No money to repair it. No backup plan. Nothing. 

There were nights when I stared at the ceiling and wondered why life kept throwing storms at me when all I wanted was a little sunshine. There were moments when I felt like giving up, the kind of giving up that feels quiet but deep. 

In the middle of all that chaos, I began to notice kindness. Little things. Small things. Things I used to ignore before my world collapsed.

A friend who checked on me even when I didn’t know what to say. A stranger who held the door for me when I felt invisible. My parents’ gentle understanding when I came home with more sadness than answers. My partner’s patience through my panic-filled nights. Even simple things, like a warm meal, a quiet morning, or someone saying, “It’s okay, I understand.”

I remember once gathering all my courage to ask for help. I expected questions, judgment, and rejection. But instead, they simply understood. No interrogation. No conditions. Just quiet, honest kindness. And that moment stayed with me. It reminded me that even in my hardest seasons, I am never truly alone, and sometimes, comfort comes from the most unexpected places.

Those tiny moments became big to me. Every act of kindness felt like a lifeline. Every bit of understanding felt like someone saying, “You’re not alone.” That’s when I realized that I didn’t know what tomorrow would look like, thus made me stop forcing myself to pretend that I did.

Knowing used to scare me, and it still does sometimes. But there is a strange kind of beauty in it, too. Not knowing means I am still here. Still growing. Still trying. Still moving forward, even if it’s slow. Not knowing means there is room for surprises, good ones. Room for days that don’t hurt as much. Room for miracles I can’t explain yet. Room for a future that doesn’t have to look like my past.

More: https://peonymagazine.com/career-money/beauty-of-not-knowing/