Maybe

There was a time I thought saying “maybe” meant you didn’t know what you were doing. Like certainty was the mark of competence. You’re either in or out. Yes or no. Pick a side.

Now I see “maybe” as resistance. A quiet refusal to be rushed into clarity. A pause in a world that demands immediacy.

People ask:
"Are you sure this is the right path?"
Maybe.
"Do you know what you want?"
Maybe.
"Is this who you want to be?"
Maybe.

I’m not indecisive—I’m just unwilling to pretend complexity fits neatly into binaries. Most things aren’t clean. Most choices aren’t final. Most truths shift when you look at them twice.

I used to think “maybe” was the space between two stronger words. Now I think it’s a full sentence. A boundary. A breath. The courage to say: I’m still becoming. I haven’t arrived. I don’t want to promise anything just to feel safe.

We’re taught to pick a lane, plant a flag, define the relationship, be sure. But maybe “maybe” is the most honest thing we ever say. Because some days, your heart is a weather system. And no, I don’t know if the sun’s coming back. But I’m here, umbrella in hand, waiting.

There’s power in that pause. In not rushing toward an answer just to silence the discomfort. Because some discomfort is data. Some uncertainty is a kind of wisdom. Some things aren’t meant to be resolved—they’re meant to be lived through.

Maybe is not indecision. It’s complexity refusing to be simplified.

And yeah, maybe I’m just saying that because I still don’t have an answer.
But maybe—just maybe—that’s okay.