The Myth of Certainty
The Subversive IDK
There are seasons when you give everything you have.
You’re thoughtful. You’re intentional. You’re open. You do the inner work, the outer work. You clear space. You align. You say no when it would be easier to say yes. You trust what’s unfolding, even when it doesn’t make perfect sense. You believe in the possibility.
You do everything right.
…And it still doesn’t go the way you hoped.
It’s not because you missed something. Or because you didn’t try hard enough or hold the right mindset or follow the right steps. It’s not because you’re broken or even unlucky. But because life, sometimes, is mysterious like that—and because some things are simply out of our hands.
Those moments rearrange you. They strip away any illusions. They scratch away the idea that control guarantees safety, that clarity guarantees outcomes. They bring you face to face with the truth I personally often try to avoid:
Certainty is not real.
We’ve been sold certainty as a promise. It seems as if it’s a currency that, if we can just acquire enough of it, will buy us a life free from pain or a future free from risk. But “certainty” is often control in prettier packaging.
Our nervous systems—shaped by generations of trauma and cultural programming—are wired to cling to what feels familiar. Not what’s supportive—just familiar. Certainty feels like structure, like order, like something we can brace ourselves against in a world that is constantly shifting beneath our feet.
And in moments of absolute crisis? I believe in using what helps. Reach for the rituals. Grasp for the routines. Give your nervous system something to hold. There’s no shame in seeking comfort, even through control. I wrote more about that here if you're in one of those seasons.
But when we prolongedly rely on certainty to feel safe, when it becomes a requirement rather than a temporary life raft, we lose something. We disconnect from our own capacity. We begin to believe that without the plan, the certainty, the “knowing,” we won’t be able to survive whatever comes next.
In many ways, this is systemic. The worship of certainty is baked into supremacy culture, into capitalism, into the linear, rigid, masculine-coded way we’re taught to “succeed.” Certainty says: have a five-year plan. Hit the next milestone. Never waver. Never rest. Never doubt.
But life isn’t just milestones and it’s full of doubts. Life doesn’t move in straight lines.
It moves in spirals, in seasons, in sudden turns we never could have planned for.
The divine feminine knows this.
Deep down, you know this.
I think about this myth of certainty often because of my proximity to the online business world, where certainty has become a product—the product. Entire industries are built on the selling of assurance. Ideas like “steal my proven formula” and “guaranteed launch results” and “the exact strategy that took me to six figures in six months” run rampant.
Certainty sells because it speaks to one of our deepest desires: to feel safe. To feel like we’re doing it “right.” To walk a path that won’t ask us to feel too much, risk too much, or confront too much. When you think about what you’re actually investing in, it’s that—avoidance of risk and a desire to feel safe.
And it’s easier to trust in their certainty than to trust in ourselves.
But business doesn’t work that way.
Life definitely doesn’t work that way.
I’ve watched people follow every “right” step and still feel out of alignment. I’ve coached clients who came to me after picture-perfect launches that flopped—and they don’t know why. I’ve seen brilliant entrepreneurs silence themselves because they couldn’t guarantee the outcome. I’ve seen others override their own intuition just to fit a mold that promised results.
And I’ve lived it. In life, I’ve done everything perfectly, only to have circumstances outside of my control derail everything. And in business, I’ve felt the pull to simplify—to ‘certain-fy’ the truth for the sake of a cleaner pitch. I’ve felt that urge to promise what can’t be actually ever be promised—just to make someone feel more certain in their choice to say let’s do it.
But I can’t. (she sighs, with exasperation)
Not without betraying what I know to be true.
Because real transformation doesn’t happen inside a guarantee.
It happens inside your willingness to show up, even without one.
I don’t sell certainty. I can’t.
Instead, I hold space for truth.
And I help people build the kind of inner knowing that doesn’t need guarantees to move.
There’s a strange kind of power in being willing to say, “I don’t know.”
Not in collapse or avoidance—but as an opening or surrender. Perhaps as a reverent bow to the fact that not all things can be solved or seen in advance.
“I don’t know” is a sacred pause.
And, honestly, it feels like a flex to say it with confidence.
It’s a reminder that we are not here to master life, but to meet it.
In Human Design, I have an undefined Ajna center—the part of the chart associated with opinions, certainty, mental clarity. I used to think this meant I wasn’t decisive enough, that my leadership was too fluid, too unsure. But I’ve come to understand that this openness is a gift. I’m not here to lock into fixed ideas. I’m here to hold questions. To follow threads. To stay open to what wants to reveal itself in real time. I’m here to explore with curiosity and know that every question has many answers—and any number of them could be right. It’s one of my favorite aspects of my chart—and one of my greatest gifts in coaching.
In a world that rewards performance and polish, it can feel vulnerable to lead from a place of “not knowing.” But it’s also deeply honest. There’s something sacred about not forcing a conclusion. About living the question long enough to be changed by it. It’s a gift to bring to others (when they’re out of the delusion that anyone can give them certainty).
The most powerful people I know are the ones who don’t rush to the answer.
They breathe. They listen. They trust the unfolding.
Those are the leaders.
Still, I get the temptation to wait. To be certain. I’m guilty of it too, sometimes.
To hold off on the post. The pivot. The launch. The conversation.
To stay in the loop of “once I’m clearer… once I’m ready… once I know.”
But what we don’t always realize is that waiting for certainty is a choice.
And often, it’s a choice that costs us—because the longer we wait to be sure, the quieter our desires become. The harder it is to hear our own voice under the noise of other people’s strategies and opinions. The longer we delay the thing that’s trying to move through us, the more it calcifies. Not because it wasn’t real or powerful—but because we abandoned it in favor of guarantees.
And what I’ve learned is: certainty might never come.
Sometimes, you won’t know if something’s “right” until you’re in it.
Sometimes, the magic only shows up when you do.
Sometimes, you have to leap without the net.
Which begs the question—if you can’t rely on certainty… what do you root into?
Simply put: you.
Your own energy. Your own discernment. Your own ability to recalibrate. To grieve, if needed. To begin again. To be wildly uncomfortable. To hold the whole messy spectrum of what it means to be alive and choose to move forward even if you’re afraid.
This is the only safety that’s real.
Not a perfectly mapped-out future—but a presence with yourself strong enough to hold the unknown.
This is the kind of leadership I believe in.
The kind I work to embody.
The kind I guide my clients into.
Can you trust yourself enough to keep showing up—even when there are no guarantees?
That’s the work.
It’s not certainty.
It’s something closer to devotion.
And I’d rather build something rooted in that than in someone else’s promise.
