The driver cuts me off, and within seconds I’ve created a story about their character.
I presume my teenager hasn’t thought something through.
I interpret my partner’s silence and am convinced I know what it means.
I hold tight to certainty.
And if I notice it in these small moments, I also have to notice how easily it shows up in the bigger ones.
Certainty is especially seductive right now.
Our sociopolitical environment practically begs us to be certain.
Our side knows. Those people don’t.
We look over the metaphorical fence and judge. We presume. We categorize. We decide what someone believes, why they believe it, and what that says about them—sometimes before they’ve said a word.
What does all this certainty cost us?
Certainty facilitates separation.
Separation from ourselves.
From each other.
From critical thinking.
From the possibility that another person knows something we don’t.
From our profound human interdependence.
There’s a cultural story underneath this.
Kenneth Jones and Tema Okun’s work on white supremacy culture helped me understand certainty not simply as an individual trait, but as something our culture can teach and reward.
Their work names patterns including one right way, either/or thinking, perfectionism, paternalism, objectivity, individualism, and defensiveness.
“One right way” assumes there is a correct way of doing or understanding something—and if other people could just see it, they’d agree. Either/or thinking reduces the complexity of human life to binaries: right/wrong, yes/no, us/them.
I see these patterns in organizations, politics, social justice spaces, and religious communities.
And, when I’m paying attention, I see them in myself.
The antidotes are strikingly relational: cultivate inquiry and learning, expect and learn from mistakes, acknowledge what we know *and what we don’t*, include people most affected by decisions, think collectively, practice accountability, and value relationship over the need to be right.
That last one keeps working on me:
What would happen if I prioritized relationship over being right?
Not truth over relationship.
Not justice over relationship.
Not accountability over relationship.
But being right.
Those aren’t the same thing.
Certainty can cost us relationship and connection.
I’m grateful to be part of online communities for parents of gender-nonconforming and queer children.
Something I encounter there continues to break my heart: stories of certainty within some Christian communities.
Certainty that God requires exclusion.
That loving someone requires rejecting their child (grown or not).
That maintaining relationship communicates approval.
That using someone’s correct name or pronouns represents theological compromise.
Whatever our theology, I think we need to wrestle seriously with what happens when certainty requires us to stop being curious about another human being—when someone’s lived experience becomes irrelevant because we’ve decided we already know everything we need to know about them.
And this isn’t only about Christianity or queer people. It’s a profoundly human temptation.
Once I am completely certain about you, I no longer have to encounter you.
I can encounter my idea of you instead.
Curiosity offers another possibility.
Curiosity does not mean agreement.
It doesn’t mean abandoning our values or pretending injustice is simply a difference of opinion.
And asking questions designed to trap someone, expose a contradiction, or prove ourselves right?
That’s not curiosity.
That’s certainty wearing a question mark.
Real curiosity loosens our grip just enough to wonder:
What might I not know?
What experience shaped this person?
What assumption am I making?
What story have I constructed without checking it?
What becomes possible if understanding—not winning—is my first goal?
This is why curiosity has become such an important practice in our work at L3 Catalyst Group.
Curiosity creates room.
Room for complexity.
Room for learning.
Room for another person’s humanity.
Room to change our minds—or deepen our convictions because we’ve examined them rather than simply defended them.
Room for connection.
I keep practicing.
I wish I could say I’ve released my need for certainty.
Nope.
I jump quickly to judge a driver. I construct stories about my teenager. I immediately decide what my partner means before I’ve slowed down enough to listen.
But I’m getting better at noticing.
And noticing gives me a choice:
Tighten my grip.
Or get curious.
Every time I genuinely practice curiosity, I learn. My understanding expands. Another person becomes more complicated—and more human.
Usually, so do I.
Curiosity is beautiful. Connection is magic.
Maybe loosening our certainty isn’t about knowing less.
Maybe it’s how we make enough room to learn more.