Why Do We Feel Like We Have to Know Everything from the Start?

Why do we feel like we need to have all the answers before we even begin?

Why do we expect ourselves to be experts right out the gate—when we’ve barely stepped foot into something new? No time, no experience, no lived-in effort… and yet, pressure. So much pressure.

I find this confusing. And if I’m honest, I’ve been a victim of this mindset too.

Anytime I’ve stepped into something unfamiliar, I felt like I had to know what I was doing—even when I didn’t have a clue what I was up against. I had no map, no compass, and no guidebook. Just the feeling that I should know. That I should be further along.

We usually see the end of someone’s journey.
We don’t see the messy middle, the false starts, the breakdowns that came before the breakthrough.
We see fluidity and forget the friction.

So why do we expect ourselves to start at the finish line?

Where’s the grace for being a beginner?
Why do we hold ourselves to such ridiculous standards?

We forget that babies cry to build their lungs.
They roll to build strength.
They crawl before they walk.
They walk before they run.

We don’t go from novice to expert in a few hours.
And carrying that kind of pressure in my body? It’s unbearable. I can literally feel the tension rise when I think about all the times I compared myself to people who had been training for marathons—while I had just shown up in worn-out shoes.

I wasn’t them. Not in that moment.

But here’s the thing: the price of being a novice today doesn’t stay the same.
If I show up intentionally, if I keep moving, the cost shifts.
Over time, I grow. Maybe even into mastery.
Maybe not. But definitely into me.

I’ve been wondering lately—why did I place so much pressure on myself to “get it right” from the beginning? When deep down, what I really wanted… was the adventure. The unknown. The becoming.

I don’t have the answers right now.
Maybe I never will.
But I know this: I’m not punishing myself anymore for not having it all figured out.

And honestly—what is the “correct” answer anyway?

Is it the one someone else decided was valid?
Some outdated rule from a system built to box us in and keep us small?

If that’s the standard, I want no part of it.

Because that question—“What’s the correct answer?”—can become a limit.
It can keep us from expanding. From dreaming. From even thinking freely.

If someone had told me earlier that getting there was supposed to look messy, experimental, and nonlinear… maybe I’d have written this post differently.

But here we are.
And maybe that is the answer.

The “correct” answer is to go on the journey.
To let the process be wild and unexpected.
To try, mess up, pivot, learn, and keep going.
To see where different choices might lead—and to not let society’s neat little boxes define what success is supposed to look like.

So here’s to being in the process.
To asking the questions.
To not needing to know.

With curiosity,
Alicia