The Scroll of Uncertainty: The Art of Saying “I Don’t Know”

In a world where certainty is celebrated, “I don’t know” feels like failure. But what if it’s  the beginning of something powerful? 

Centuries ago, Aspasia—an intellectual woman in a society that refused to record her  thoughts—was remembered more for who she knew than for what she knew. Her ideas  were influential but undocumented, often erased. Today, reclaiming the space to admit  what we don’t know—and to explore it bravely—is part of reclaiming that silenced  intellectual freedom. 

There’s something oddly terrifying about admitting you don’t know something— especially in a world that rewards certainty, speed, and strong opinions. 

We nod in conversations we don’t fully understand. 

We pretend we’ve read the books, watched the films, followed the trends. We throw around buzzwords, drop vague summaries, and pray no one asks a follow-up  question. 

Why? Because somewhere along the line, we learned that not knowing is  embarrassing. That it makes us look unprepared, unintelligent, or unworthy of being  part of the conversation. 

But the truth is, “I don’t know” is where all good thinking begins. 

It’s the most honest thing we can say in a world full of noise. 

It’s what curiosity sounds like before it has the words to ask the right question. It’s not a flaw. It’s a foundation. 

Every inventor, writer, scientist, and teacher started with “I don’t know.” Einstein didn’t wake up with a theory of relativity fully formed. 

Writers don’t start with a masterpiece—they begin with an idea, often vague and  trembling. 

The bravest thinkers are not the ones with all the answers, but the ones with the courage  to admit they’re still learning. 

In fact, the most dangerous thing isn’t ignorance—it’s fake knowing. Pretending. Guessing. Refusing to ask questions. 

That’s how mistakes are made. That’s how innovation stalls. That’s how we lose the  magic of discovery. 

So what if we started celebrating those three small words? 

What if, instead of faking certainty, we said: 

• “I don’t know, but I’d love to find out.” 

• “I haven’t thought about it that way before.”

• “That’s a good question—I’m still figuring it out.” 

To say “I don’t know” is to stand in a long line of thinkers who questioned boldly—even  when history tried to quiet them. 

In admitting we don’t have all the answers, we channel the spirit of women like Aspasia,  whose voices were too radical to be preserved but too important to be forgotten. This, too, is a kind of scroll—unwritten, yet unfolding with every question we dare to ask.

-Mari Priyadarshini