Uncertainty, Fear, and Hope

“It’s not the unknown itself that paralyzes us—it’s our fear of what it might hold.” – Unknown

In life, there is always uncertainty.

Will my car start? Will there be traffic? Will I make it in time?

Is this milk bad? What will happen if I drink it anyway?

Most of the time, we aren’t aware of how much uncertainty there is. We focus on the present moment and the task at hand. Our awareness and perception are constrained to what is in front of us.

That’s a good thing. It would be terrifying if we were constantly aware of just how much uncertainty there is. We’d be paralyzed by fear—fear of the unknown, of what the future might hold, and of how little control we truly have.

“When everything is uncertain, we crave control. But clinging to certainty can keep us from growing.” – Unknown

Sometimes, though, uncertainty is impossible to ignore. Sometimes, it compounds until it becomes big enough to have a gravity of its own. And sometimes, it collapses on itself like a black hole that consumes every other thought.

Uncertainty about my son’s future. Uncertainty about my career. Uncertainty about the health of a loved one. Financial uncertainty. Relationship uncertainty. Each can be daunting by itself and occupy my thoughts. But, together, there can be nothing else. No other thought can escape.

When uncertainty dominates our thoughts, it can be overwhelming. In these moments, it’s easy to focus on the negative, like the discomfort of not knowing and the worst-case scenarios that could unfold.

I’ve always tended to wait for the other shoe to drop, focusing on the rare moments when it does rather than the many times it doesn’t. This pattern is known as negativity bias—the tendency to give more weight to negative experiences than to positive or neutral ones. Even when good outcomes are more common, the few bad ones loom larger in my mind, especially during times of uncertainty, when the unknown consumes my thoughts.

It’s hard to remember that uncertainty isn’t always a bad thing because it’s difficult to imagine positive outcomes when all you see is the unknown.

Uncertainty is the refuge of hope.— Henri Frederic Amiel

I like this quote because it shifts perspective. While uncertainty can be unsettling, it also allows space for hope. The unknown holds the potential for something better, new opportunities, healing, and change.

I try to remind myself of this when fear takes hold. When everything feels uncertain, there is still room for hope. And sometimes, hope is enough to keep moving forward.

The Real World

This is the true story…of seven strangers…picked to live in a house…(work together) and have their lives taped…to find out what happens…when people stop being polite…and start getting real…The Real World.

Around the time I graduated high school, MTV launched a show called The Real World. The first season followed seven young adults living together in a New York City loft, documenting their interactions, conflicts, and discussions about race and identity. It was marketed as an unscripted glimpse into young adulthood, but in reality, The Real World was anything but real. The show was heavily edited, and its cast was carefully selected to generate conflict and drama. The environment was artificial—a manufactured version of adulthood designed for entertainment rather than truth.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about that contrast between reality and expectation as we navigate our own version of The Real World—helping our son transition into adulthood. We’re working with a transition counselor to understand his path forward, and it’s forcing us to confront some hard realities about his future.

This process has resurfaced unanswerable questions and concerns about how much support our son would need to get through his daily life. Will he remember to take his medication? Does he know when to do laundry? Will he remember to turn the stove off? Would he be able to finish chores and tasks without getting distracted?

The scripted version of adulthood—the one where you turn 18, go to college or get a job, and move into your own place—isn’t the one we’re working with. Instead, we’re piecing together a different kind of future shaped by his abilities, challenges, and the resources available to help him live as independently as possible.

The good news is that there are benefits and programs designed to support people like him. However imperfect, there are systems in place that can help him build a life. A life where he can find his own sense of independence, identity, and path.

The bad news is that these systems and benefits are the same ones under attack by the current administration. Social Security, Medicare, Medicaid, the Department of Education, and support for non-profits are all in danger of being eliminated or losing some or all of their funding. The uncertainty of the future of these vital support programs directly correlates with the uncertainty I feel about my son’s future.

Ultimately, this is the real world that I am thinking about. Not the one made for television, but the one that exists where there are no cameras. A world that is not made for people like him. A world where, one day, he’ll have to live without us, whether those support systems exist or not. What that world looks like and what his quality of life will be in that world is what we are fighting for.

It’s not scripted.

It’s not edited for drama.

It’s just real.

Who I Am Meant to Be

Life’s challenges are not supposed to paralyze you, they’re supposed to help you discover who you are.

Bernice Johnson Reagon

When my son started having seizures, I was paralyzed. I was afraid. I was helpless. I was there physically but didn’t know how to be emotionally present for him or my wife. I had disassociated from the situation, leaning into my job and the mechanics of keeping a household running. My wife became the full-time caregiver in a new city without any family to support her through my son’s most challenging times medically, intellectually, and emotionally.

After years of therapy, I still struggle with the semantic debate about whether to say I was afraid or I felt afraid. But looking back, I think I was both because while those words described how I was feeling, they also described my actions. And inactions.

It was an impossible time, and I committed to doing better. Over the years, I became a better partner and father, but I had a lot of work to do to repair the damage those years did to the relationships in my life.

A few years ago, my wife had health challenges that limited her capacity for physical activity. Rather than distancing myself from the situation, I tried to lean in. In addition to going to work, I took on most of the responsibilities around the house. I thought showing her I could care for her would be enough. But the same lack of emotional connection persisted. She was cared for but wasn’t receiving what she needed and deserved most.

Being the parent of a child with special needs is challenging enough. Coming into the situation with trauma and fears makes the situation infinitely more complex, dangerous, and demanding. I know families who have been ripped apart by it. I also know families who have become stronger, and I wanted to be one of those families.

Rather than paralyzing me, I want these challenges to help me discover who I can be. I want to be the type of person who can show up and be present. I want to be a person who can be vulnerable when the vulnerability is needed. I want to be the type of person who makes a person feel seen who is struggling, or in pain, or needs to feel seen. I want to be the type of person who isn’t afraid to be seen.

I still have moments of doubt, of fear, of wanting to retreat into old patterns. But each time, I remind myself that being present, vulnerable, and truly showing up is a choice. And every time I make that choice, I get closer to the person I want to be.