Waiting for Certainty
I have wasted an impressive amount of time waiting for decisions to feel better. Not necessarily easy; I am reasonable enough to know that deciding whether to change careers probably isn't going to feel like choosing between chocolate and vanilla ice cream. But somewhere along the way, I apparently developed the idea that a good decision should eventually produce a particular internal sensation. The facts would line up, the clouds would part, my stomach would unclench, and I would experience a deep sense of peace and think, Yes. Obviously. This is the answer. This would be lovely if decisions agreed to work that way, but unfortunately, many of them don't.
Sometimes we already have the information we need. We have compared the options, figured out what matters most, considered the consequences and perhaps talked to the people whose opinions actually belong in the decision. And yet we keep waiting because the choice still feels uncomfortable. In Unstuck, I make a distinction that has become increasingly important to me: clarity and certainty are not the same thing. Clarity means understanding the decision, the real options, the priorities involved and the tradeoffs you are accepting. Certainty would require knowing what happens afterward, and no amount of responsible decision-making can give us complete command of the future.
That difference explains a lot about why capable people can remain stuck long after they have supposedly done their homework. We tell ourselves we need more information, so we gather it. Then we decide we need another opinion, so we get that too. Eventually we know enough to make a responsible choice, but instead of choosing, we quietly change the requirement. Now we need to feel sure, and when certainty doesn't arrive, we interpret the lingering tension as evidence that there must still be something wrong with the decision. The finish line moves from having sufficient information to achieving an emotional state that the decision may never provide.
I can make this process spectacularly elaborate. Give me enough time and internet access and I can turn the purchase of an ordinary household item into a minor doctoral dissertation, complete with reviews to read, alternatives to compare, one-star warnings to investigate and the haunting possibility that somewhere, perhaps on page eleven of the search results, there is a better option I haven't discovered yet. At first, that research may genuinely improve the decision, but there comes a point when I'm no longer learning anything useful. I'm trying to eliminate the possibility of regret, and that is an entirely different assignment.
Regret is particularly persuasive because imaginary alternatives enjoy an enormous advantage over whatever we actually choose: they never have to become real. The unchosen job never develops an annoying coworker, the house we didn't buy never needs a new roof, and the restaurant we passed over never serves an overcooked steak. The sofa still sitting on the website never sags, stains or turns out to look slightly different in afternoon light. Meanwhile, whatever we actually choose has to endure reality, with all its inconveniences and imperfections. Unstuck describes this unfair comparison: the real path has flaws we can see, while the unchosen path remains polished by imagination because it never had to encounter ordinary life.
Keeping every option open can therefore feel safer, but it has a cost too. An unresolved decision doesn't remain politely tucked away until we schedule time to think about it. It comes into the shower, gets in the car, interrupts work and occasionally wakes up at three in the morning apparently refreshed and ready for another meeting. We may not be actively making the decision, but some portion of our attention remains assigned to it, ready to reload the options and arguments whenever something reminds us of the problem. Eventually, delay can become more exhausting than deciding, because postponement gives us temporary relief without actually closing the question.
This is where one sentence from Unstuck keeps coming back to me: “A choice often becomes possible before it becomes comfortable.” We may still dislike the tradeoff, worry about another person's reaction or wonder whether the alternative would have turned out better. Progress isn't the elimination of those feelings; it's recognizing which feelings point to a real problem and which are simply part of closing one door in order to walk through another. A decision can be ready before our emotions have caught up with it.
That doesn't mean we should make important decisions recklessly. Some choices genuinely require time, and medical, legal, financial and safety decisions may require qualified advice. Sometimes a fact really is missing, we're exhausted and need to sleep before deciding, or another person legitimately shares the decision and needs to participate. Carefulness has a purpose, though, and purposeful waiting has a finish line. We can say what we're waiting for: the test result, the contract review, the conversation, the estimate or the appointment. Paralysis is different because it keeps moving the finish line until what we're really waiting for is not information at all, but the feeling of being completely sure.
At some point, then, the question has to change from How can I know this is the perfect choice? to Do I know enough to make a sound one? Does the option meet the requirements that actually matter? Have I gathered information appropriate to the stakes, considered the responsibilities that genuinely belong to me and acknowledged the tradeoff I'm accepting? Is there a meaningful fact still missing, or am I asking another round of thought to protect me from the ordinary vulnerability of choosing? Sometimes that final question reveals something we'd rather not admit: we know enough to choose, but we're still scared, and being scared is not necessarily evidence that we should stop.
One of the ideas I love most in Unstuck is that confidence doesn't have to mean believing we'll always choose correctly. A sturdier kind of confidence is knowing that we can make a careful choice and, if reality later gives us new information, meet the next decision when it comes. That changes the assignment considerably because I no longer have to predict every consequence before I'm allowed to move. I don't have to guarantee that Future Jennifer will never look back and wish something had gone differently. I have to make the best decision I reasonably can with the information available to Present Jennifer and trust that Future Jennifer will still possess judgment, resources and the ability to respond to whatever happens next.
Perhaps that is what being unstuck actually looks like—not marching confidently into every choice without a backward glance, eliminating doubt or developing some mystical instinct that whispers the correct answer every time. Sometimes it is simply recognizing that the decision has become clear enough before it has become comfortable enough and allowing yourself to choose anyway. Life doesn't always hand us certainty before asking us to participate in it, and waiting for that certainty can keep us standing in the doorway long after we know enough to walk through. Sometimes movement begins when we stop asking the decision to make us comfortable first and take the next honest step while some uncertainty is still coming along with us.
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