A reflection on ambiguity, duality, and the tension of almost-knowing.
I used to think life was made up of moments where things became clear.
The yes or the no.
The staying or the going.
The moment you know for sure.
But I’ve come to understand that clarity is a rare visitor—and often overrated.
Most of life lives in the in-between.
The almost.
The maybe.
The quiet I-don’t-knows we try not to say out loud.
There’s a particular ache in ambiguity. A specific kind of tension in holding two truths at once:
I love them, but I don’t want to stay.
I’m healing, but I’m still hurting.
I’m ready, but I’m afraid.
Living in that space is exhausting—but it’s also honest. And it’s the space that shaped The Art of Being Almost.
“Some lives aren’t lived in full chapters. Some are scattered pages, bound by hesitation.”
That line came to me in the middle of an unfinished conversation I’ll probably never pick back up.
I used to rush through in-betweens, desperate to name something final. But now, I’ve learned to stay there. Not forever—but long enough to notice the details: how much room there is in uncertainty, how much softness, how much you learn when you stop trying to make everything make sense.
The in-between isn’t a failure to arrive.
It’s a place all its own.
And it deserves our presence, not just our impatience.
If you’re waiting for certainty to give you permission to move forward—this is your reminder that uncertainty isn’t a stop sign. It’s just a softer road. And you’re still allowed to walk it.
