where uncertainty finds us

This morning I woke up with the quiet ambition to go on a walk. I love walking, the fresh air, the slow movement, the soft presence of nature. And it is a simple pleasure I try to give myself every single day.

This morning the forecast had promised rain, a one hundred percent chance. However, when I looked outside the world hadn’t caught up yet— just a couple clouds lazily drifting over the sky. So, I moved quickly. Headphones on, shoes tied, and out the door. In the back of my mind lingered a playful thought: Of course, the second I step outside, it will start raining.

To my surprise, maybe the world had taken pity on me, or maybe the clouds had simply taken a little longer to reach me, but it hadn’t rained yet. I got on the phone with a friend and about .8 miles in, it started sprinkling. The wind was blowing and rain drops were slamming into my face, and I laughed to myself. The rain started to pick up, but I told myself that if I didn’t do anything else today, I would finish this one mile. I climbed up the hill in my neighborhood, and by the time I had come down I completed the mile.

One mile may not seem like a lot. But I know a version of myself would never have gone out at all. In fact, a very recent version of myself would have stayed inside, waiting for the rain to arrive, rather than honoring the quiet window before it begins.

This is just one small example. But it makes me wonder how many times in my life I have waited for the rain— paused my ambition, delayed my living, braced for something that hadn’t yet begun. And how may moments, like this one, were asking me to step outside anyway.

How many times do you stay at home when you should have gone out?

How many times do you go out when you should have stayed at home?

You don’t have control over what happens and what doesn’t happen. You can study the sky, memorize the forecast, rehearse every possible ending—but life is never obligated to follow your preparation. The clouds don’t respond to readiness. They move when they’re ready to move.

I think about the days I waited. Waited for clarity. Waiting for the right mood. Waiting to feel more confident, more ready, more certain. I would wait, almost hope for the rain, so I could say, See? I was right to stay inside. And I think about how often that waiting turned into habit.

And this was never really about literally going out or staying in. My walk this morning was a small, harmless version of what I believe to be a much bigger truth. This is about the way life asks you to choose without ever giving you any certainty in return. About how every decision— staying, waiting, leaving, speaking— feels like stepping forward without knowing whether the ground beneath you will hold.

I think about how frightening that is. We often hesitate because we want proof before we move. We linger in the doorway, convincing ourselves that stillness is wisdom, when sometimes it’s just fear asking for more time. We want a promised result. We ask ourselves, what is the point of doing anything at all if we aren’t promised anything in return? And, I guess this is what being human is, an asking for something bigger than ourselves.

But stillness has consequences too. Staying can cost you just as much as leaving. Silence can echo louder than words ever would. So, I guess there really is no winning is there? There is no version of living that is untouched by loss. Every path takes something from you and every path gives something back.

The rain did not come with any meaning this morning. It was not a sign, a lesson, or a warning. It was simply weather— uninterested, indifferent, and inevitable. And maybe that’s the truth I have been circling: life does not pause to explain itself. It does not tell you which decision hurts less, it just arrives. I don’t know any answers. I don’t know why life is shaped this way. All I know is that something in us keeps reaching anyway—keeps stepping forward, keeps asking the sky for meaning, even when it stays silent. And, maybe that reaching is what keeps us human.

And this is where uncertainty meets us—not as something to solve, but as something to stand inside. There is nothing certain about our lives, no guaranteed outcomes, no promised arrivals. Except this: ourselves. The way we show up. The integrity of choosing in alignment with who we are becoming. The small, steady satisfaction of knowing that, in this moment, the choices we are making feel like the truest ones available to us. Not because they are right, but because they are ours.

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I wrote this after my walk this morning! It’s so funny how sometimes it feels like we’re just doing things to do them, and that’s what inspired me to write this. If this post found you in the huge void of Substack, I would love to connect! Until next time 💌♥️