The Only Thing I Know For Certain Is This…

It’s been 27 years since I gave my college commencement speech, and I remember it vividly.

Standing there, freshly graduated, I did what many twenty-somethings do when handed a microphone and a moment that feels larger than themselves: I reached for philosophy. Specifically, Plato. I told my classmates that after four years of college, after all the lectures, exams, papers, and late nights, the greatest realization I had come to was this: all I knew was that I didn’t know.

It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t self-doubt. And it certainly wasn’t an admission of defeat.

It was a battle cry.

At the time, I meant it as an invitation—to curiosity, to humility, to adventure. We were stepping into the world not as finished products, but as works in progress. Knowing that we didn’t know meant we were free. Free to ask better questions. Free to explore without the burden of certainty. Free to grow without pretending we had already arrived.

There was something exhilarating about that idea. The notion that life wasn’t about reaching a final answer, but about staying awake, staying curious, and staying open.

What I didn’t fully understand then was how enduring that truth would be.

Twenty-seven years later, after careers, relationships, successes, failures, hard-earned lessons, and moments that reshaped who I thought I was, the only thing I still know for certain is this: I don’t know.

And somehow, that feels even more true now than it did back then.

With time, you realize how often certainty is mistaken for wisdom. How confidently people declare answers to questions they haven’t lived long enough to understand. How seductive it can be to cling to rigid beliefs simply because they feel safe.

But life has a way of dismantling certainty. It introduces complexity. It reveals contradictions. It humbles you with experiences no theory could have prepared you for. The more you live, the more you see how little fits neatly into boxes.

Knowing you don’t know isn’t weakness. It’s strength. It’s the posture of someone who remains teachable. It’s the mindset that keeps inquiry alive long after formal education ends. It’s what allows growth to continue when others become defensive, cynical, or closed off.

When you know you don’t know, you listen more.
You judge less.
You ask better questions.
You adapt instead of resist.
You evolve instead of harden.

In a world that rewards certainty, hot takes, and absolute opinions, there is quiet courage in saying, “I’m still learning.” In admitting that understanding is provisional, that perspectives change, that wisdom deepens over time.

Looking back, that commencement speech wasn’t really about graduation at all. It was about permission—the permission to remain a student of life. To see each chapter not as a conclusion, but as a beginning. To treat uncertainty not as something to fear, but as the engine of discovery.

The adventure I spoke about that day didn’t end when we walked off that stage. It began there.

What’s striking, looking back, is not how much has changed—but how true that idea has remained. Time didn’t replace it with certainty. Experience didn’t resolve it into clean answers. If anything, life only sharpened the insight.

After all these years, after everything I’ve learned and unlearned, the truth feels even clearer:

The only thing I know… is that I don’t know.

And that isn’t resignation. It’s fuel. It’s what keeps inquiry alive, curiosity intact, and growth possible.