9) What We Don't Know (And Why That's Where Dialog Begins)
We can’t see what we can’t see.
We don’t know what we don’t know.
And being willing to accept that—especially on a scale where we can impact change—is the most important thing.
But we live in a culture that punishes not knowing.
Not knowing is seen as weakness. As lack of preparation. As being uninformed, uneducated, not worth listening to.
So we pretend. We perform certainty. We speak with confidence about things we barely understand. We defend positions we haven’t fully examined. We argue as if we have all the information when we’re operating with fragments.
And this—this performance of certainty—is what’s killing our ability to solve complex problems together.
Because complex problems require that we learn from each other. That we acknowledge the limits of our own perspective. That we’re willing to say “I don’t know” and mean it—not as defeat, but as invitation.
“I don’t know. Tell me more.”
That’s where dialog begins.
The Certainty Trap
There’s a reason we resist admitting what we don’t know: our culture equates certainty with competence.
Politicians who say “I don’t know, I need to learn more about that” get eviscerated. Leaders who acknowledge the limits of their understanding get replaced by leaders who claim to have all the answers (whether they do or not).
We’ve created a system where confidence is rewarded and humility is punished.
And the result? People in positions of power making decisions about things they don’t understand, rather than risk appearing uncertain.
Think about it:
Legislators voting on technology policy they can’t explain
Judges ruling on scientific evidence they haven’t studied
School boards making curriculum decisions without consulting educators
Corporate leaders implementing policies in communities they’ve never visited
They’re not bad people. They’re operating in a system that demands they appear to know everything—so they pretend they do.
And we all suffer for it.
What Families Know About Not Knowing
In family therapy, one of the most powerful moments is when someone says, “I don’t know why I do that.”
Not defensively. Not as an excuse. But as a genuine acknowledgment: I’m confused by my own behavior. I don’t understand my own patterns. Help me see what I can’t see.
That’s when change becomes possible.
Because as long as you’re defending your position, you can’t learn anything new. As long as you’re performing certainty, you can’t integrate new information. As long as you’re protecting your ego, you can’t grow.
The same is true in systems.
When a system—a family, an organization, a community, a nation—can acknowledge “we don’t know how to solve this,” that’s when creativity emerges. That’s when people with different expertise can contribute. That’s when innovative solutions become visible.
But it requires the people in power to stop pretending they have all the answers.
And that’s terrifying. Because admitting you don’t know feels like giving up authority.
But here’s what’s actually true: the leader who can say “I don’t know, help me understand” has more authority than the leader who pretends to know everything and leads everyone off a cliff.
The Most Important Sentence in Civic Dialog
If I could teach everyone in America one sentence, it would be this:
“I don’t know. Tell me more.”
Not “I don’t know” with an ellipsis that means “…and I don’t care.”
Not “Tell me more” as a trap so you can find weak spots in their argument.
Genuine curiosity. Genuine willingness to learn.
Mónica Guzmán, who wrote I Never Thought of It That Way, spent years studying how to have conversations across political divides [1]. And one of her core findings is this: curiosity is the bridge.
When you approach someone with genuine curiosity—when you actually want to understand how they arrived at their position, what experiences shaped their worldview, what they’re trying to protect or create—the conversation shifts from combat to exploration.
But curiosity requires humility. It requires acknowledging that the other person might know something you don’t. That their experience might reveal something your experience has hidden from you.
That you can’t see what you can’t see.
The Blind Spots We All Have
Here’s what’s hard to accept: every single one of us has massive blind spots.
Things we don’t know we don’t know. Perspectives we’ve never considered. Experiences we can’t imagine. Systems we don’t understand because we’ve never had to navigate them.
And the more privilege you have, the bigger your blind spots—not because you’re a bad person, but because privilege insulates you from certain realities.
If you’ve never worried about money, you have blind spots about poverty.
If you’ve never been profiled by police, you have blind spots about the criminal justice system.
If you’ve always seen people like you in positions of power, you have blind spots about representation.
If you’ve never had your body or identity politicized, you have blind spots about autonomy and safety.
These aren’t moral failures. They’re limitations of perspective.
But they become moral failures when we refuse to acknowledge them. When we insist we understand things we’ve never experienced. When we talk over the people who do have that experience.
What We Owe Each Other
So if we all have blind spots, if none of us can see the whole picture, what do we owe each other?
I think it’s this:
The responsibility to share where the gap is.
To say: “From where I stand, this is what I see. This is what’s missing. This is where the system is failing.”
And the willingness to listen when someone else does the same.
Because we can’t see what we can’t see. We don’t know what we don’t know. But collectively, we might be able to piece together a more complete picture.
Remember the elephant? Each person touching a different part, describing it differently?
They were all right. They just couldn’t see the whole elephant from their position.
The solution isn’t to argue about who’s more right. The solution is to trust each person to accurately describe the part they’re touching and then build the bigger picture together.
When “I Don’t Know” Is Actually an Answer
There’s a difference between “I don’t know” as deflection and “I don’t know” as honest response.
Deflection sounds like:
“I don’t know, it’s complicated” (when you don’t want to engage)
“I don’t know, both sides have valid points” (when you don’t want to take a stance)
“I don’t know enough to have an opinion” (when the issue doesn’t affect you and you’d rather not bother)
That’s not humility. That’s apathy dressed up as neutrality.
But honest “I don’t know” sounds like:
“I don’t know how to solve this. What do the people most affected think we should do?”
“I don’t know what it’s like to experience that. Can you help me understand?”
“I don’t know if my approach is working. What am I missing?”
“I don’t know the answer, but I’m committed to figuring it out with you.”
That kind of “I don’t know” opens doors. It invites collaboration. It makes space for other voices.
The Courage to Stay Curious
Here’s what takes real courage: staying curious when you’re being criticized.
When someone tells you you’re wrong, when they challenge your assumptions, when they point out your blind spots—the instinct is to defend. To justify. To explain why you’re actually right and they just don’t understand.
That instinct kills learning.
The courageous response is: “Tell me more about that. Help me understand what I’m missing.”
Not because you’re going to automatically agree with them. Not because you’re abandoning your own perspective.
Because you’re willing to integrate new information and see if it changes anything.
Researcher and author Brené Brown talks about the difference between being “right” and being in relationship [2]. You can be right and alone. Or you can stay in relationship and keep learning.
Which one actually creates change?
What This Looks Like in Practice
Imagine you’re in a community meeting about school funding. Someone proposes cutting arts programs to fund STEM.
Certainty-based response: “That’s ridiculous. Arts are essential. Anyone who thinks otherwise doesn’t value creativity.”
Curiosity-based response: “I’m worried about cutting arts. Can you help me understand what problem you’re trying to solve with that approach? What are you seeing that I might be missing?”
See the difference?
The first one shuts down conversation. The second one opens it.
And here’s what might happen: maybe they explain that STEM jobs are the fastest-growing sector in your region and students need those skills to access economic opportunity. Maybe you explain that arts education improves outcomes across all subjects and helps students develop critical thinking.
Neither of you is wrong. You’re seeing different parts of the elephant.
And if you can stay curious instead of defensive, you might find a third option: funding both by identifying waste elsewhere, or phasing the changes differently, or partnering with community organizations to supplement.
But you only get to that third option if you can say “I don’t know the perfect answer. Let’s figure it out together.”
The Invitation
I don’t know all the answers.
I really don’t.
I know family systems. I know nervous system regulation. I know attachment trauma. I know how to help people create change in their personal relationships and their internal worlds.
But can I tell you exactly how to fix our political system? How to address climate change? How to solve homelessness? How to create economic justice?
No. I can’t.
What I can do is share where I see the gap. Where the systems I understand intersect with the systems you understand. Where my perspective might illuminate something you haven’t seen, and where your perspective might illuminate something I’ve missed.
And I invite you to share where the gap is for you.
Not in a way that diminishes my voice or shuts my thoughts down. But in a way where we can collaborate and come together in understanding and fixing some of the things that have broken our system.
I want to have a conversation about how I can impact my system here—not in Florida, not in China, but my system here. Because I’m going to trust that they can do the same with the knowledge of their system.
I don’t need to take my world and save someone else’s with it. I need to save mine. And I want to trust that they can do the same for theirs.
So What?
This week, practice saying “I don’t know” out loud.
Notice how it feels. Notice how people respond.
Try these phrases:
“I don’t know. Tell me more about that.”
“I don’t understand that experience. Can you help me see it from your perspective?”
“I might be missing something. What am I not seeing?”
“I don’t have all the information. Who should I be listening to?”
And when someone else says “I don’t know,” don’t pounce. Don’t treat it as weakness.
Treat it as an invitation. Because that’s what it is.
We can’t see what we can’t see. We don’t know what we don’t know.
But together, we might be able to figure it out.
And that starts with the humility to admit what we’re missing—and the curiosity to learn from each other.
“I don’t know. Tell me more.”
That’s where dialog begins.
CITATIONS
Guzmán, M. (2022). I Never Thought of It That Way: How to Have Fearlessly Curious Conversations in Dangerously Divided Times. Dallas: BenBella Books.
Brown, B. (2018). Dare to Lead: Brave Work. Tough Conversations. Whole Hearts. New York: Random House.
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