I was 25 when I learned about the circles.
It was early in my business career and I was presenting to a big group of people in a packed conference room, when somebody asked a question I didn’t know how to answer. Rather than admit I didn’t know, I came up with something on the fly. Like most people who tend to do this, I thought I was better at it than I actually was.
The meeting ended, the room cleared, and as I was gathering my things, a woman on my team scooted her chair closer. I’d always respected her. She was funny, wise and kind. “I’d like to show you something,” she said, “and I hope you don’t take it the wrong way.” I promised I wouldn’t.
She opened her notebook to a blank page and drew a small circle. “This is what we know,” she said. She drew a slightly larger circle around the smaller one. “This is what we know we don’t know.” And then she drew a gigantic circle around the other two. “And this is what we don’t know we don’t know.”
She looked up at me, waiting to see if I understood. Or maybe she was checking to be sure I wasn’t offended. “No one expects you to have all the answers,” she said gently.
It was enlightening. And oh, so humbling.
There was so much I didn’t know, and even more that I didn’t know I didn’t know. And for maybe the first time in my professional life, someone told me that was OK.
Her words and those three circles left a huge impression on me. It took time and practice, but I got better at saying “I don’t know,” especially when it felt awkward and uncomfortable. After a while, I found those words to be pretty powerful in the business world. I started to enjoy looking people right in the eye and saying, “I don’t know, but I’ll find out.” The truth always sounds better.
But then that deep-seated desire to know everything returned in an unexpected way.
During my first pregnancy, I decided I needed to know how to be a mother. I read every book there was on the topic. Not kidding. Every. Book. I was standing in a bookstore, picking out more new parenting books, when I went into labor. I had so much to learn and, God, I hated that. I had to know.
In those first precious weeks of my son’s life, rather than figuring out motherhood as I went along, I read. One night, my husband came home to find me in tears, cradling a crying baby with one hand and holding a book that told me how to keep said baby from crying in the other one. I was a mess.
He told me he loved me, and that because he loved me, he was taking away my books. And then he took my hands in his and said, “You’re not supposed to know how to do all of this.”
It was enlightening. And oh, so humbling.
It brought back the memory of those three circles. There was so much I didn’t know, and even more that I didn’t know I didn’t know. Once again, I needed someone to tell me that was okay.
Over the years, “I don’t know” has become a powerful tool as a parent. Turns out, like the people I worked with, my kids don’t expect me to have all the answers either. I’m grateful for all those moments of not knowing, because we get to learn new things together.
But one night, my son tested my ability to speak those three words in a way I’ll never forget. He’s a big thinker with lots of questions, and he tends to ask them as I tuck him in at night, when the world is quiet and dark. “What happens to us when we die?” he asked.
I’d always assumed I’d answer that question the same way my parents had: Heaven. I’d grown up in a Christian family, going to church twice on Sunday and every Wednesday night. I sang in the youth choir and could recite the books of the Bible by heart. But a quest to better understand my faith had changed my perspective over time. At one point, I knew that answer. But in that moment, I couldn’t honestly say I did.
I answered him with those three words that used to scare me: “I don’t know.”
Keeping it simple for my eleven-year-old, I told him that some people believe in heaven, or paradise. Other people believe in reincarnation. Some believe that this life is all we have, and others believe that something about our soul — the part of us that laughs and loves — carries on in a way we can't even imagine. I explained that there are lots of different answers to that question, because lots of people believe lots of different things, but no one really knows for sure.
“If you think about it,” I said, “that’s pretty cool, because you get to decide what you believe.” I turned the question back to him. “What do you think happens when we die?”
We talked for a long time that night. Our conversation was enlightening. And oh, so humbling.
It brought back the memory of those three circles. There was so much I didn’t know, and even more that I didn’t know I didn’t know. And that night, I let that be OK.
I’ve thought a lot about those circles as I’ve written my new novel, "Little Do We Know." It’s a story about two teen girls, a skeptic and a believer, working to repair their broken friendship with help from a boy who has just come face-to-face with death.
It’s about figuring out what you believe, and accepting — not simply tolerating — all points of view when it comes to life’s greatest mystery, because none of them are right and none of them are wrong.
I write for young adults because I love the way they see the world. They’re big thinkers. They question everything. They’re not satisfied with the status quo — just look at what the Parkland kids are doing to change the world. Our teens are seeking answers, and when adults don’t have honest ones, they need us to say, I don’t know, but I’ll be there to support you while you figure it out for yourself. I believe they need books that tell them that, too.
I decided to write "Little Do We Know" to help me figure out what I think and believe. Here’s where I landed: I don’t know.
I do know that every second of this life is precious. I know I’m here to love deeply and to make the world a better place in whatever ways I can. I know I’ve had an impact on some people who are going to miss me when I’m gone. I could probably come up with other things that live in my smallest circle, but it’s a pretty short list. It always will be. Because when it comes down to it, there’s very little I know.
And I’m completely OK with that.
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