The Beauty of Not Knowing

Writing from the middle of an unfinished story.

This week, I got to spend a few days with someone who has been an important part of my life. A year had passed since we’d last seen each other, and somewhere in the quiet space between then and now, we’d both become different versions of ourselves.

I’ve realized we spend so much of our lives trying to figure out what a moment means that we forget to simply experience it.

Normally, I write from the other side of things. After I’ve processed the experience. After I’ve figured out the lesson. After I’ve wrapped everything up into something neat enough to share.

This time, I’m writing from the middle.

I’m not trying to figure anything out. I’m not trying to predict the future or decide what this reunion means. I’m simply observing it as it’s happening.

Maybe that’s growth.

Maybe not every meaningful experience needs to be solved before it’s allowed to be beautiful.

Over the course of a few days, we talked about feminism, womanism, Africa, healing, writing, and how much we’d both changed over the last year. We laughed more than I expected. At one point he mentioned one of my favorite scholars before I had the chance to bring her up, and I caught myself blushing. He laughed because he noticed.

It was such a small moment, but moments like that reminded me that intimacy isn’t always physical.

Sometimes intimacy is being known.

One of the things that meant the most to me was learning that he’d been reading my blog. As a writer, there are few things more meaningful than someone taking the time to engage with your work. Reading someone’s writing is a way of saying, I want to understand how you see the world. That felt incredibly special.

One thing surprised me, though.

We never had sex.

There was attraction. We talked about it openly. But in the end, it never happened.

And I’m actually grateful.

Not because sex would’ve been wrong, but because I realized what I wanted most wasn’t physical intimacy.

It was closeness.

It was conversation.

It was getting to sit across from someone who has known different versions of me and realizing we still had so much to say.

On his last night with me, after he left my apartment, I cried.

Not because I thought I’d lost him.

Not because I expected us to suddenly become something else.

Not because I regretted anything.

I cried because something beautiful had come to an end.

I think we misunderstand sadness.

We assume every tear means we’re holding onto something we should’ve let go of. We treat sadness like evidence that we’re stuck, when sometimes it’s simply evidence that something mattered.

Sometimes sadness is just gratitude with nowhere to go.

That realization led me somewhere I wasn’t expecting.

As we talked, I couldn’t help but notice how much he’d changed. He seemed lighter. More settled. More comfortable in himself. Watching him made me think about something I’ve been carrying for a long time: my own desire to leave.

For years, I’ve talked about living abroad. About wanting to experience life somewhere different. Seeing someone flourish after changing his environment reminded me that maybe growth isn’t only about the work we do internally.

Maybe the places we choose shape us too.

Maybe some versions of ourselves are waiting for a different landscape.

I’ve spent so much time thinking about where I want to go that I almost forgot to ask why I’ve been feeling called in the first place.

This week reminded me that sometimes the people who re-enter our lives don’t come back to change our direction. Sometimes they simply hold up a mirror and remind us of the questions we’ve already been asking ourselves.

I don’t know what happens next.

Maybe we’ll see each other the next time he’s in town.

Maybe we’ll talk every now and then.

Maybe years from now our paths will cross in another city, or maybe even another country.

Maybe they won’t.

And for the first time, I don’t feel like I need to know.

For so much of my life, I believed every meaningful connection had to answer a question.

Is this forever?

Is this my person?

Is this closure?

This week offered me a different question instead.

Can I fully receive this moment without demanding that it become something else?

Can I appreciate someone’s presence without immediately wondering where it’s headed?

Can I remain hopeful without becoming attached to an outcome?

I think I can.

Hope says, Maybe we’ll meet again.

Attachment says, We have to.

There’s a quiet freedom in knowing the difference.

For a few days this week, two people who once knew each other well got the opportunity to meet again—not as the people we used to be, but as the people we’re still becoming.

We laughed.

We talked.

We listened.

We appreciated who the other had become.

And when it was time for him to leave, I let myself be sad.

Not because I needed more.

But because beautiful moments don’t have to promise forever to change us.

For a long time, I believed peace came from having the answers.

This week reminded me that sometimes peace comes from trusting the question.

Maybe that’s the beauty of not knowing.