Living Into Answers: Embracing The Questions

There was a time when I didn’t know if I’d ever make it to the other side of this.

Not because the task was so grand. But because it was so quiet. So slow. So personal. It was the kind of journey that didn’t come with instructions, just a quiet pull in the dark. A question you carry with you through seasons, unsure if there’s an answer, or if the question itself is all there is.

It didn’t begin with a plan. It didn’t feel inspired. It felt uncertain. Some nights I stared at an empty page for an hour, and walked away having written nothing. Other nights I wrote for hours, only to wake up and delete everything. And there were days, weeks even, where life got heavy and I couldn’t find the energy to write at all. The world didn’t wait. Work didn’t pause. Life kept moving. And I was just trying to make space for something that felt like it mattered, even if I couldn’t yet explain why.

What I remember most from those years isn’t clarity. It’s doubt. The kind that arrives quietly at first, and then makes a home inside you. What if I’m wasting my time? What if I’m not good enough? What if this is all leading nowhere? You don’t outrun those thoughts. You learn to carry them. You write with them sitting beside you. You keep walking, even when it would be easier to stop.

And yet, I kept going. Not out of ambition. Not out of confidence. But because something in me refused to let go. A quiet belief that this mattered, even when nothing around me confirmed it. I kept showing up. Not always well. Not always clearly. But I stayed with it.

And in the background of those pages, life unfolded. There were changes. Sharp turns. Moments of joy, and moments of loss. I’ve lived through grief while writing this. I’ve fallen out of alignment and found myself again. And through it all, this stayed. This practice. This commitment. This quiet returning to the page.

It became my constant. What I once dreaded became the one thing that anchored me. And in time, it became more important than I could’ve ever known. Not just something I created but something that witnessed me grow. Something that created me even.

It reminds me of what Rainer Maria Rilke once wrote that we must learn to love the questions themselves. That we are not meant to find all the answers now, but to live our way into them. Slowly. Unknowingly. Quietly.

That’s what this became. Not a product. Not a goal. But a question I lived with.

Now that I’m here, near the end of my journey, I don’t know what this destination will mean, years from now. Whether it will matter to many, or just to me. But I know what it took to get here. I know the nights I stayed when it would’ve been easier to leave. The silence I sat with. The doubt I kept walking through.

And most of all, I know this: I am not who I was when I began. And maybe that’s the whole point. That the things we build in the dark are not just meant to be shared. They’re meant to shape us. Quietly. Completely. Without anyone seeing, until they do.