There was a time when uncertainty could quietly take over an entire day.
If I was waiting for an answer, I was waiting for an answer.
If I was hoping for a meeting, I was hoping for a meeting.
Everything else would continue around me, but my attention would remain fixed on a possibility. My body might be present, but part of me would already be living in a future moment, trying to secure an outcome that had not yet arrived.
Tonight felt different.
I sat with a glass of white wine and a bowl of groundnuts beside me (even though they’re not particularly good for me because of my allergy). Somewhere in the background was the possibility of seeing someone I have recently grown fond of.
Nothing had been confirmed.
Nothing had been cancelled.
The timing remained uncertain.
And if I’m being honest, I didn’t particularly enjoy that uncertainty.
Months ago, I would have tried to resolve it. I would have asked more questions, checked in again, rearranged my plans, and kept part of my evening on standby.
Instead, I found myself saying something simple:
“Let me know when you have a better idea of the timing.”
And then I returned to my evening.
The evening continued anyway.
The more I think about it, the more that sentence feels like its own kind of milestone.
Not because I no longer care.
Not because I have become detached.
Not because I am pretending to be unaffected.
Quite the opposite.
I cared enough to hope.
I cared enough to be a little disappointed by the uncertainty.
I cared enough to look forward to seeing what the evening might bring.
But I also cared enough about myself not to place my entire life on hold while waiting.
That balance took years to learn.
Some lessons arrived gently.
This one did not.
It arrived through heartbreak, disappointment, unmet expectations, and long periods of learning how to sit with feelings instead of allowing them to consume me.
Eventually, I discovered something surprising:
Peace is not the absence of hope.
Peace is the ability to continue living while hope sits beside you.
So tonight, I am writing.
I am sipping my wine.
I am eating my groundnuts.
I am smiling at the thought of possibilities without demanding certainty from them.
Maybe plans will happen.
Maybe they won’t.
Maybe tomorrow will bring clarity.
Maybe it won’t.
For now, none of that changes the fact that this evening still belongs to me.
And perhaps that is what healing looks like.
Not becoming harder.
Not becoming less hopeful.
Simply learning that while we wait for life to unfold, life is already unfolding.
