There’s a concept a YouTuber I follow spoke about recently, and it landed in me in a way I didn’t expect.

It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t comforting in the traditional sense.
But it felt true.

The idea was this:

Being convinced either way about the meaning of life can be a surprisingly heavy place to live.

If you’re fully convinced the world is meaningless — truly nihilistic — life can feel stark. Bare. Almost hollow.
And if you’re fully convinced there is a God, with rigid ideas of heaven and hell, you may end up living under a constant background fear:

What if I get it wrong?

Both positions come with certainty.
And certainty, I’m realising, often comes with weight.

What I’m Noticing

What struck me was the suggestion that the middle — the place of not knowing — might actually be the most humane place to stand.

Not as avoidance.
Not as intellectual laziness.
But as a conscious way of living.

Because if you genuinely don’t know how things will unfold — whether life has ultimate meaning or not, whether things will turn out well or badly — then worrying starts to lose its grip.

Not because nothing matters.
But because you don’t have enough information yet to justify the worry.

And that changes everything.

I’ve noticed this in myself for a long time.

At times, I lean toward something like nihilism. There are moments where life feels empty, mechanical, stripped of higher meaning.
And yet, there’s always another part of me that resists that conclusion.

A quieter part that says:

No… there’s something here.
I just don’t know what it is.

And the truth is — I’ve never fully crossed into certainty in either direction.

I fluctuate.
I move along a spectrum.

Instead of seeing that as confusion or indecision, I’m beginning to see it as fluidity.

Why I Think It Matters

Uncertainty gives me permission to stay present.

To live today without needing to solve existence.
To respond to what’s actually in front of me, rather than what I think should be true about the universe.

If things go well, they go well.
If things go badly, they go badly.

But until either of those things actually happens, there isn’t much point in tightening my body around imagined futures.

This “edge” — this middle space — feels like a place where life can be lived rather than explained.

It doesn’t demand belief.
It doesn’t demand disbelief.

It simply asks me to be here.

And for me, right now, that feels like the healthiest perspective I’ve found.

The Open Question

Not knowing —
but still living.
Still caring.
Still showing up.

Uncertainty, not as a problem to fix,
but as a place to stand.

What changes if I stop trying to resolve life — and let myself inhabit it instead?