Why Am I? Between “I Don’t Know” and “I’m Not Sure”

 

In moments of stillness, the weight of unanswered questions often feels the heaviest.

This is a teleological question: Why am I? Why do I exist?

It’s not just about my circumstances. It’s about my essence. There is a sense that there must be a reason, a direction, or a design behind my being. But the moment I ask the question, I hit a wall. I wasn’t there when I came into existence. I wasn’t part of my own creation. I didn’t choose to be. I didn’t initiate myself. I’m not the architect. I’m the artifact. That alone complicates the answer from the start.

From this uncomfortable truth, I’m left with two honest responses. They become, in effect, two distinct postulates.

• First: I don’t know. This is the humble answer. It doesn’t try to dress itself up in false certainty. It doesn’t pretend to know what it doesn’t. It acknowledges the basic fact that I wasn’t there when I was made. I don’t know who made me. I don’t know why. If there was a blueprint, I wasn’t shown it. If there was a creator, I wasn’t in the meeting. “I don’t know” accepts mystery. It is a quiet answer. One that stops chasing the uncatchable.

• Second: I’m not sure. This answer points in a different direction. It doesn’t rest. It lingers with the question. “I’m not sure” doesn’t know, but it suspects that knowing might be possible. It keeps the door open. It allows for exploration. It has doubt, but not despair. This response gives birth to curiosity. It is what drives philosophy, religion, science, and art. All are born from the refusal to let the question die.

So here I am. Suspended between “I don’t know” and “I’m not sure.” These aren’t just responses. They are positions I can take toward existence itself. Each one creates a different type of life. “I don’t know” leads to stillness. “I’m not sure” leads to movement. One accepts the mystery. The other wrestles with it.

If I choose “I don’t know,” I lean into a sort of sacred ignorance. It might even be the wisest thing I can say. But there is a temptation here. The temptation to turn humility into indifference. If I settle too deeply into not knowing, I may never explore at all. Not every “I don’t know” is equal. Some are peaceful. Others are lazy.

If I choose “I’m not sure,” I enter into the work of searching. I let the question guide me, even if it doesn’t promise an answer. But this too can be dangerous. I may become obsessive, chasing answers that aren’t mine to find. I may exhaust myself trying to explain what was never revealed. So not every “I’m not sure” is hopeful. Some are restless. Some are manic.

In truth, neither response is fully satisfying. Both fall short. And so I find myself making a compromise.

If I can’t know my primary purpose — the reason I was originally made — then perhaps I can give myself a secondary one. I admit that I don’t know the cosmic reason. Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe I’m not sure. But I still have life. I still have time. So I use what I do have to choose a reason for myself.

This is not the same as discovering the truth. It’s not revelation. It’s reinvention. I stop trying to figure out why I was put here and start asking what I will do with the fact that I am here. This is a shift from received meaning to assigned meaning. I create the second purpose because the first is absent, unknown, or out of reach.

In doing so, I’m not rejecting teleology. I’m just redirecting it. I stop looking up and start looking forward. I take destiny into my own hands. If the heavens won’t tell me my purpose, I will tell it to myself.

Of course, there’s a catch.

Assigning myself a purpose is not the same as having one inherently. I can’t claim divine insight. I can’t claim metaphysical authority. My purpose is self-given. It could be wrong. It could be arbitrary. But it is mine. That’s the wager I make. That even a purpose I create can still be meaningful if I live it out fully.

This self-assigned purpose has to be more than just an idea. It must be enacted, lived, and repeated. It can’t just be a poetic phrase I tell myself in the mirror. It has to shape the way I live. Otherwise, it becomes theater. If I say my purpose is to bring light into dark places, then I have to actually go to those places and do the work. My words must become form. Otherwise, they’re just noise.

There’s another temptation here. I may feel the need to choose a grand, heroic purpose. Something impressive. Something worth writing books about. But that’s another illusion. My purpose doesn’t have to be magnificent. It only has to be real. If I say that my purpose is to love well, or to think deeply, or to work honestly, that is enough. The scale of the purpose doesn’t determine its value. The truthfulness of my commitment does.

Still, I return to the split between “I don’t know” and “I’m not sure.” They aren’t enemies. They are companions in the journey. Sometimes I need the rest that comes from “I don’t know.” I need to pause. I need to breathe. Other times I need the energy that comes from “I’m not sure.” I need to push. I need to explore. The wise person learns how to carry both. Too much of one leads to stagnation. Too much of the other leads to exhaustion.

We are not all-knowing. But we are not blind either. We exist in a state of partial light. And it is in that space, between the shadows and the sun, that we must learn to live.

And so the question remains. Why am I?

If I try to answer it too quickly, I risk delusion. If I stop asking it altogether, I risk despair. The middle ground is hard. It’s a place of honest tension. But it’s where the most authentic life happens. I admit I don’t know. I admit I’m not sure. And then I choose a purpose anyway.

Maybe that’s what courage is.

To build meaning with imperfect tools. To create a life without a clear instruction manual. To stare into the silence of the universe and still speak.

So let me end with this: If you never get an answer to the question of why you exist, would you still find a reason to live.