The Cost of Certainty

Unravelling and Reweaving

When the true me was hiding, I found safety in certainty. I knew how to sit across from someone, to listen, to pray, to give words that sounded strong. Certainty became a shield. It made me feel useful, even loveable. If I could answer with confidence, maybe no one would notice how much I was hiding.

At first it was comforting. The ‘collar’, the pulpit, the authority, they all gave me the feeling of being anchored in a world that otherwise felt shaky. Certainty said, “If you hold the line, you’ll be safe.” And for a while, I believed it.

But over time, that certainty became a mask. The longer I wore it, the further down I pushed the parts of me I feared others would reject. It wasn’t only that I was hiding the truth of being gay, it was that I was losing confidence in everything outside the script of certainty. Without my answers, who was I? Without my rehearsed voice of authority, what did I have to offer?

The cruel irony was that certainty, which had started as comfort, grew into the very thing that fed my imposter syndrome. Because deep down, I knew I wasn’t as sure as I pretended to be. And the more I clung to it, the more fraudulent I felt.

Maybe you know that feeling too.

Certainty can disguise itself as strength, but it is often fear in costume. Fear of losing control.

Fear of being wrong. Fear of being seen as you truly are.

And yet here’s the paradox: we long for certainty because it promises safety, but in the process it robs us of authenticity. It stops us asking questions. It stops us admitting weakness. It stops us trusting that we might still be loved in the middle of the unknown.

I sometimes wonder: what has certainty cost you? Has it stopped you from speaking honestly with a partner? Has it made you hold on too tightly at work when you knew something needed to change? Has it silenced parts of you that are still waiting to breathe?

For me, certainty was the chain I mistook for an anchor.

One practice that helps: when I feel the panic rising, the urge to solve, to know, to nail things down, I try a simple breathing exercise. Sit quietly. Place one hand on your chest, one on your belly. Breathe in slowly for a count of four. Hold for two. Breathe out for a count of six. With each breath, whisper to yourself: “It is safe not to know.” Do this three times.

It won’t erase the questions. But it gives your body permission to stay present with them, instead of being crushed under the weight of certainty.

This was the beginning of reweaving: the discovery that my worth was never in the strength of my answers, but in the honesty of my presence.

Uncertainty, once my enemy, has become my companion.

When I began to loosen my grip on certainty, I discovered something unexpected: people didn’t actually want a pastor who knew everything. They wanted someone who could sit with them, who could admit, “I don’t know either, but I will walk with you through this.”

It turns out that honesty heals more than certainty ever did.

Let me offer you some practical tools that helped me shift from clinging to certainty toward living with curiosity and courage. You don’t have to use all of them. Choose one that resonates today.

The Mirror Question
Next time you feel the need to sound certain, pause and ask: Am I speaking truth, or am I speaking fear in disguise? Just naming the difference can open space for honesty.

The Two-Column Practice
Draw a line down a page. On the left, write the certainties you’ve clung to (“God will be angry if…”, “I must always…”). On the right, write what is actually true in your lived experience. This is not about destroying faith. It’s about noticing where certainty and reality diverge.

Embodied Curiosity
Certainty lives in the head. Curiosity lives in the body. Try this: when faced with a hard question, instead of rushing to answer, notice your body. Where do you feel tension? Breathe into that place. Ask yourself, What is my body telling me here?

Reframing Doubt
Instead of seeing doubt as failure, treat it as an invitation. Write one sentence that begins, “Because I doubt this, I am free to explore…” Watch how it turns fear into possibility.

The Conversation Stretch
Have a safe conversation where you practise saying, “I don’t know.” Let it land. Notice what happens. Often the other person feels relieved they didn’t need your certainty, they needed your presence.

Here are some sentences I return to when I feel the pull of certainty:

1) Certainty feels safe, but it suffocates growth.
2) Doubt is not the opposite of faith; it is the soil where honesty grows.
3) I am not loved for my answers. I am loved because I am here.
4) It is safe not to know.

If you take nothing else from this, let it be this:

Certainty will always tempt you with comfort, but comfort without truth is a prison.

Uncertainty will stretch you. It will humble you. It will unsettle you. And yet, it may be the very space where you finally breathe free.

I no longer measure my worth by how sure I sound. My life, my parenting, my love, my faith, they are all stitched together by questions and mystery. And strangely, it is in that mystery that I have found gentleness, humility, and a truer kind of belonging.

I don’t need to be certain anymore. I need to be present. And maybe that presence is where love has been waiting all along.