Letting the River Decide: Staying With Uncertainty

“Looking deeper, we could say that the real cause of suffering is not being able to tolerate uncertainty—and thinking that it’s perfectly sane, perfectly normal, to deny the fundamental groundlessness of being human.”
—Pema Chödrön

Uncertainty has been a quiet thread running through my life lately. Not just mine—I’ve seen it surfacing in the lives of friends, family, patients. It seems to be in the field right now, stirring things up just beneath the surface. For some, it arrives as a question about direction. For others, it's the feeling that something once solid has begun to shift, and there’s no clear path forward. I’ve felt it in my own body too—a low hum of discomfort, a lack of ground, a loosening of what I thought I could count on.

In Chinese medicine, we look to nature for guidance. And nature never stays still. The Earth doesn’t resist the turn of seasons. The sap recedes in autumn, not knowing exactly when spring will call it forth again. There’s no shame in the dormancy of winter, no rush to bloom before the time is right. What looks like stillness, even confusion, is often a kind of preparation.

Still, it's hard not to reach for answers. In our culture, knowing is currency. We’re taught to have a plan, a purpose, a five-year map. But in the medicine, transformation doesn’t follow a straight line. The gallbladder zigzags down the body, changing course at each joint. It governs decision-making, but not through rigidity—through discernment. Through the willingness—and the courage—to change direction when the moment calls for it.

I’m learning—slowly, awkwardly—to be in a different kind of relationship with uncertainty. Not to master it. Not to bypass the discomfort. But to listen to it. To notice what it stirs in me. To let it be a teacher instead of a threat. I’ve seen others around me doing the same—holding their breath a little less tightly, allowing the question to stay open a little longer.

There’s an image I keep returning to: a stick caught in a dam. Over time, it becomes tangled—held in place by a dense accumulation of debris. Mud, other branches, fragments of things that were never meant to be carried. The buildup is gradual, almost imperceptible. But over time, the weight becomes undeniable—burdened by attachments that feel like comfort, but offer no safety, no true ground.

Then something shifts. The pressure breaks. The water swells and overwhelms the structure that held everything in place. There is a moment of chaos, of rushing and overwhelm—and then, release.

Liberated.
Weightless.
Free.
Unattached.

No longer held by the tangle, the stick yields—moving not by will, but by water. No longer bound, no longer needing to know.

There’s a quiet strength in that kind of staying. It’s not passive. It takes a different kind of courage to not rush toward the next known thing. To remain porous. To admit: I don’t know yet, and still keep walking.

Maybe this season is asking something softer of us—not to solve, but to accompany. Not to define, but to dwell. I don’t have clarity, only companionship with the not-knowing.
And strangely, that feels like enough for now.

“Embrace relational uncertainty. It’s called romance. Embrace spiritual uncertainty. It’s called mystery. Embrace occupational uncertainty. It’s called destiny. Embrace emotional uncertainty. It’s called joy. Embrace intellectual uncertainty. It’s called revelation.”
—Mark Batterson