Why I Started Saying "I Don't Know"Not by trade—I worked in marketing—but by survival instinct. Every meeting, every dinner party, every casual conversation was a performance where I pretended to know things I absolutely did not know. Wine varieties. Cryptocurrency. Why the stock market was doing whatever it was doing that week.
I'd nod sagely when someone mentioned blockchain technology, throw around words like "disruptive" and "paradigm shift," and pray nobody asked follow-up questions. I was like a Wikipedia page that only had the first paragraph written.
The breaking point came during a client presentation where I confidently explained our "omnichannel strategy" for fifteen minutes. Afterward, my colleague Sarah pulled me aside and asked, "What did you actually mean by omnichannel?"
I stared at her like a deer in headlights. "You know... all the channels... working together... omniously."
"Omniously isn't a word," she said gently.
That night, I went home and had a reckoning with my bathroom mirror. When had I become so terrified of not knowing things that I'd rather sound like an idiot than admit ignorance?
The next morning, something shifted. In our team meeting, when someone asked about our Q4 metrics, instead of fumbling through buzzwords, I said three simple words: "I don't know."
The room didn't collapse. Nobody laughed. My boss just said, "Okay, can you find out by Friday?"
Revolutionary.
I started experimenting with honesty. At the grocery store, when the cashier asked if I found everything okay, instead of lying, I said, "Actually, I couldn't find tahini and was too embarrassed to ask." She walked me right to it. At a friend's housewarming, when everyone was discussing craft beer, I admitted I couldn't taste the difference between an IPA and a lager. Instead of judgment, I got a ten-minute education from three enthusiastic beer nerds.
Here's what nobody tells you about admitting ignorance: people don't think less of you. They think more of you.
Saying "I don't know" became my superpower. It opened doors I didn't know existed. Colleagues started explaining things instead of assuming I understood. Friends included me in conversations instead of talking around me. My teenage niece, who usually responded to my questions with eye rolls, suddenly started telling me about her life because I stopped pretending to understand TikTok.
The most surprising discovery? People are desperate to share what they know with someone who genuinely wants to learn. My fake expertise was keeping me isolated. My real curiosity was building connections.
I learned more in six months of saying "I don't know" than I had in years of pretending otherwise. My work improved because I asked questions instead of making assumptions. My relationships deepened because I stopped performing and started participating.
The paradox of knowledge is that the more you admit you don't know, the more people trust what you do know. Confidence isn't about having all the answers—it's about being comfortable with the questions.
Now when someone mentions something I'm unfamiliar with, instead of nodding and internally panicking, I lean in with genuine interest: "Tell me more about that."
Three words that used to terrify me became the key to everything I was missing. and It Changed Everything
I'd nod sagely when someone mentioned blockchain technology, throw around words like "disruptive" and "paradigm shift," and pray nobody asked follow-up questions. I was like a Wikipedia page that only had the first paragraph written.
The breaking point came during a client presentation where I confidently explained our "omnichannel strategy" for fifteen minutes. Afterward, my colleague Sarah pulled me aside and asked, "What did you actually mean by omnichannel?"
I stared at her like a deer in headlights. "You know... all the channels... working together... omniously."
"Omniously isn't a word," she said gently.
That night, I went home and had a reckoning with my bathroom mirror. When had I become so terrified of not knowing things that I'd rather sound like an idiot than admit ignorance?
The next morning, something shifted. In our team meeting, when someone asked about our Q4 metrics, instead of fumbling through buzzwords, I said three simple words: "I don't know."
The room didn't collapse. Nobody laughed. My boss just said, "Okay, can you find out by Friday?"
Revolutionary.
I started experimenting with honesty. At the grocery store, when the cashier asked if I found everything okay, instead of lying, I said, "Actually, I couldn't find tahini and was too embarrassed to ask." She walked me right to it. At a friend's housewarming, when everyone was discussing craft beer, I admitted I couldn't taste the difference between an IPA and a lager. Instead of judgment, I got a ten-minute education from three enthusiastic beer nerds.
Here's what nobody tells you about admitting ignorance: people don't think less of you. They think more of you.
Saying "I don't know" became my superpower. It opened doors I didn't know existed. Colleagues started explaining things instead of assuming I understood. Friends included me in conversations instead of talking around me. My teenage niece, who usually responded to my questions with eye rolls, suddenly started telling me about her life because I stopped pretending to understand TikTok.
The most surprising discovery? People are desperate to share what they know with someone who genuinely wants to learn. My fake expertise was keeping me isolated. My real curiosity was building connections.
I learned more in six months of saying "I don't know" than I had in years of pretending otherwise. My work improved because I asked questions instead of making assumptions. My relationships deepened because I stopped performing and started participating.
The paradox of knowledge is that the more you admit you don't know, the more people trust what you do know. Confidence isn't about having all the answers—it's about being comfortable with the questions.
Now when someone mentions something I'm unfamiliar with, instead of nodding and internally panicking, I lean in with genuine interest: "Tell me more about that."
Three words that used to terrify me became the key to everything I was missing. and It Changed Everything