#26 What I Admire Most in People
They usually say "I don't know" or "I'm not sure" or "I think"
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned about myself in 70 years,” wrote Martha Manning on her 70th birthday, “it’s that I’m completely full of shit.”
I absolutely loved reading that. These days, I’ve been finding myself struck by statements of a similar vein. A few more examples: A speaker in a virtual work seminar, upon introducing herself, said she’d be happy to take questions after the session via e-mail. Then, she cautioned: “I may not have all the answers, but I’d be happy to exchange thoughts with you.” In his newsletter, Sasha Chapin wrote about how his second marriage played out and confessed: “The fact that we’ve gotten here, from where we were, makes me more clueless than ever about what makes relationships work.”
I know that “I’m completely full of shit”, “I may not have all the answers”, and “I’m clueless” are arguably three different thoughts. But what I see is they’re underpinned by the same thing: they are admissions of fallibility.
For as long as I can remember, I had always been drawn to people who appear as if they just know. You’ve probably come across the type (there are plenty in the corporate world): the ones who can walk into a room and talk like they know exactly what they’re talking about. Like they know exactly what they’re doing. They’re your slick-talking colleague. Your assertive teammate. They swagger and speak with authority, even if they really have none.
Not surprisingly, my fondness for this trait of self-assurance carried over to writing—because it was something I wanted and needed for myself. I distinctly remember noting this piece of writing advice: “Write with authority.”
Trying to manifest more conviction in myself, I took this advice to heart. Unlike me, the person who preached it seemed to have a generous supply of self-belief, so I ended up idolizing him.
I suspect this also partly explains my inclination to write self-help. In its most conventional form, self-help is a genre that thrives on defining premises, clarifying thought processes, and ascertaining some kind of structure out of complex problems. You want a thing to make sense? Well, let us, self-help writers, categorize it for you (There are three ways to live a happy life). Let’s run through it, step-by-step (Become a morning person in four steps!). By all means, borrow this personal method, this nifty framework. Here, we will systematize and platitude-ize to beat the chaos of your life into submission.
And isn’t it all just so alluring? That air of certainty, of definitiveness — whether it be about yourself, your point of view, or your grip on the situation at hand.
Then I run through my mental catalog of these self-certain people. And while some of them are worth their salt, I realize that some of them are not different from Martha Manning. As in: they’re full of shit. But unlike her, they’d rather deny or hide it. These are the people who generally find it hard, perhaps even hate, to be anything less than right. It took a while for me to see how this curbed their potential.
Here’s the price I had to pay for glorifying such qualities: It became hard for me to tell confidence from arrogance. I thought that acknowledging your gaps and uncertainties made you weak at best, stupid at worst. That it was being right and credible and guns-blazing sure that makes someone stand out. So, naturally, with these types of people, I tended to overlook or tolerate their flaws—as if their charisma compensated for everything else.
This isn’t particularly groundbreaking: of course, we like certainty. It’s more comforting to listen to someone who acts like and assures you he can be trusted. We’ve been trained to put a premium on proof—on things that lend credibility, whether actual or the impression of it—because they help us inch towards that sense of certainty.
New York Times editor Dan Jones explains this well:
Throughout our education we are asked to prove things in our writing, to come up with a thesis and support it with evidence. We think we need to sound like an expert, and if we don't we worry our essay might fall apart. If we feel doubt or ambivalence creeping in, we try to shove it aside. Certainty feels like strength. Doubt feels like weakness. Ambivalence just feels wishy-washy.
But is this really the case?
I don’t think so. Not anymore.
In personal essay-writing, one of the most refreshing lessons I’ve learned is this: your readers will trust you more when you admit your gaps and uncertainties. As Harris Sockel says, “It’s compelling to read someone who is really imperfect, who doesn’t know themselves, but is being very honest about that.” So he tells writers: “You might be an expert on something, but there are probably some things you don’t know. Showing all of that, and trying to be honest about all of that, will give you a lot of credibility for readers.”
Feels counterintuitive, doesn’t it? But, continuing Jones’ quote, here’s why it makes sense:
[But] if we’re trying to understand something, our voice of certainty can start to sound narrow and simplistic, whereas our voice of doubt and ambivalence can start to sound intelligent, humble, and empathetic. Certainty has become weakness, and doubt has become strength.
Nowadays, I love it when I hear someone simply say: “I don’t know.”
Or “I’m not sure”.
Or when they begin with “I think” or “maybe”.
(Bonus points if that someone has every right to impress upon others their experience and credibility.)
Obviously, being forthright about not knowing or things you don’t know or are unsure of is endearing in its humility. But it’s a lot more than that.
If anything, it shows that a person is aware that all we really have is our own point of view—which is limited. It’s swayed by our personal histories and biases. By societal norms and long-held dispositions. Such people are more wary of how, to quote a college professor, “your mindset makes you a square person.”
Consequently, they seem to have this internalized sense that there’s something they might not be seeing—and this lends them the headspace and heart for new perspectives. I suppose this is also why they seem to be able to stay hungry and stay humble—two things that seem to be at odds with each other—at the same time.
Another thing they’re able to balance: a firm take and an inviting temperament. If you’ve been following my work, you’ll know my favorite newsletter creator is Haley Nahman. And that’s because she is the epitome of this balance. Her newsletter, Maybe Baby, was named after her regard for the unknown, unclear, and uncertain.
To her, it’s perfectly possible to give your POV “without patronizing others with certainty. Because what do any of us know, really? And who do we become when we close ourselves off to other possibilities?”
Lastly, I find that the people who can leave room for possibility are also very good at holding space for nuance. They’re acutely aware—or at least do their best to remember—that the subtle differences between us count for more than we know. Even when it seems possible and helpful to define, simplify, or categorize situations, they know life is mostly made of shades of grey rather than black and white. Some complexities just can’t be simplified into a framework or a platitude.
All of this makes them more curious and attuned to the world around them. They’re less at the mercy of their assumptions, their delusions, their ego. They readily invite strangers to exchange thoughts with them, and give advice knowing its limitations. Their limitations. They say they’re full of shit and think it’s normal. They know they’ll never fully understand a person or a situation unless they’re in it—but they do their best anyway. They ask questions without rushing to find an answer, much less one that is bulletproof. And they let their modes of thinking and being evolve.
Ultimately, I find that there’s so much grace, so much potential for empathy—if you openly admit to your uncertainties, doubts, and ambiguities. And yes, these are things that render us fallible. But isn’t that what we are in the first place?
People relate better with imperfections and flaws rather than with those that try to look too perfect. I find showing and being honest about what you lack or something similar gives you the power to address it instead of hiding it in the closet which lets it fester inside you.