Between Questioning and Knowing
I grew up Jehovah’s Witness. Now—before you run from another taboo dinner table topic, I assure you—this is not that. I share that simply as context. For many, the foundation of how we understand and navigate life—ourselves and the world around us—begins with religion. What this is instead is a reflection and reconciliation of twenty years of religious upbringing, and twenty years of curiosity, exploration, and learning.
What I’ve come to understand is that my foundation is layered—held in ‘and boths’. Belief and doubt. Hope and fear. Joy and shame. Inclusion and isolation. The weight of that tension has felt, at times, like carrying both a boulder and many pebbles—some I’ve clutched tightly, others I’ve learned to release. And still, I find myself setting them down, again and again, as I continue this year’s journey of the in-between.
One of my favorite books, What I Know for Sure by Oprah Winfrey, has been a quiet guidepost in that process. It’s a collection of reflections on joy, resilience, connection, gratitude, and clarity—drawn from her own life, both expansive and deeply personal. It reminded me to return to something simple, yet grounding: what I know.
What I know for sure is this: a belief system rooted in the wellbeing of self, and the wellbeing of others, has become my foundation. Across the many layers of life—mental, emotional, physical, spiritual, intellectual, and beyond—this way of being asks for intention. For values, balance, self-awareness, resilience, purpose, and a responsibility to something greater than self. It is here that my authenticity lives, and where my integrity breathes.
I also know that community matters. Communities that align with our beliefs foster connection, accountability, and safety. I have found this in many forms—family, friends, volunteer spaces, shared interests, recreation, support systems, professional environments, and even within congregation—spaces where I have been challenged, supported, and, at times, truly seen. It is within these spaces that I continue to practice what I believe, not just in thought, but in action.
And then there is love. The desire to be deeply seen and known, and the willingness to truly see others. As I shared in Between Longing and Trust, my relationship with love has been layered. And yet, that desire has never left. It has evolved. Softened. Through releasing expectation, control, and fear, love has not diminished—it has expanded. It remains essential to how I move through the world, and to what I know.
For me, this is no longer about choosing certainty over uncertainty, or faith over questioning. It is about living within both—allowing what I know to ground me, and what I question to keep me open. There is a quiet steadiness I’ve found here. Not in having all the answers, but in trusting how I move through them. And for now, that is enough.
So I ask—how might we continue to prioritize our wellbeing, build communities that reflect it, and choose love—again and again?
Finger Slivers
Straw mounds of books—
blowing drifts of tunneled voices,
unwavering minds—
admiration
form an unsettling chill
and warmth.
Red-stained slivers
on fingers
recite the journey—
of a once
cautioned tale.
Tear drop—
warned into constraint,
justify reason
and cause
once a burn,
now a solvent,
and blood
no longer turns—
the page.
— James Allen, 2026