Looking back on tough times, I often think, It wasn’t that bad, really. I wonder why I worried so much to begin with.

Going through a breakup, losing a job, or facing financial struggles is never easy. In those moments, it feels like you’re standing in a harsh spotlight—exposed, vulnerable, visible to the whole world. These things can happen to anyone, at any time, and there’s little you can do to prepare for the downward spiral, the “fall from grace,” as they say. You take the plunge, hoping for a soft landing, but rock bottom hits hard, leaving you winded and stunned.

The shock manifests physically. The chest tightens. Breathing becomes shallow. Your stomach churns, appetite disappears, sleep turns into a restless battleground. The world blurs at the edges. Simple tasks feel monumental. Tears come easily, leaving your face raw and swollen. Energy drains away until even standing feels like an act of defiance. Your shoulders slump under a weight no one else can see.

I often reflect on the anxieties I faced after losing a job or going through a breakup. We’ve all been there, in some form, and many have endured far worse. When debt piles up, escape feels impossible. A breakup—even one you sense coming—can still strike with brutal speed. The loss of a loved one arrives like lightning, sudden and irreversible.

People like to say time heals all wounds. I’m not so sure.

Perhaps it’s because of experiences like these that so many people choose the safer route: steady employment, predictable routines, relationships that double as shelter. Security becomes the goal.

I’ve always done the opposite. I pursue things with intensity, diving in headfirst, convinced that passion alone might be enough. Sometimes it is. Often, it isn’t. And each failure carries a cost.

Striving for more means living with a quiet, constant fear—the knowledge that every high makes the next fall possible. Still, that risk has never fully driven me away. The lows sharpen the highs. The ascent only thrills because of the memory of descent. Over time, I’ve grown familiar with failure. Not comfortable with it—but fluent in it. Each setback leaves its mark, carving lessons into places logic can’t reach.

Then comes that familiar moment: here we go again.

Another job lost. Another income stream collapsing. Another relationship slowly unravelling. The cycle restarts.

Anxiety follows.

It becomes a presence. A parasite. It feeds on thought, on sleep, on reason itself. Worry multiplies, inventing futures where everything collapses at once. And yet, looking back now, I realise something unsettling:

I almost always survived.

The disasters I imagined rarely arrived.

So why did the fear feel so real?

The answer is embarrassingly simple.

Uncertainty.

That’s all.

Uncertainty is the true trigger—the quiet architect behind the dread. It creates that hollow, sinking feeling in the gut. The mind hates empty space, so it rushes to fill it. With worst-case scenarios. With imagined catastrophes. With stories where you always lose.

The harder you try to outthink the future, the faster it outruns you.

The unknown stretches ahead like unmapped terrain. No landmarks. No guarantees. So we reach for control. We build mental fortresses out of what ifs, hoping they’ll protect us.

Instead, they imprison us.

We become hyper-vigilant, exhausted, joyless. So focused on the next disaster that we miss the fragile opportunities quietly forming in front of us. Ironically, the worry itself becomes the obstacle—the invisible wall between who we are and who we might become.

What’s even stranger is that uncertainty isn’t only something that happens to us.

It’s something that is often used on us.

Employers and recruiters know this well. After interviews, while you wait for the call, your mind does most of the negotiating for them. By the time the offer comes, your uncertainty has already weakened your position.

Parents use it to motivate children.

 Teachers use it to sharpen attention.

 Partners use it to unsettle.

 Silence, delays, withheld answers—each one creates psychological leverage.

Even art relies on it. Cliff-hangers. Twists. Ambiguous endings. The unknown keeps us engaged, talking, returning. Curiosity feeds connection.

But uncertainty has a darker face.

When mixed with desperation, it breeds paranoia. It fuels conspiracy theories, erodes trust, fractures communities. The mind craves patterns, even imaginary ones. Faced with chaos, it will accept almost any explanation if it offers the illusion of order.

The more uncertain the world becomes, the more vulnerable we are to those who promise clarity.

Which raises an uncomfortable question:

What if uncertainty isn’t just a weakness… but a tool?

Perhaps the real shift comes when we stop being its victim and learn to recognise its mechanics. To understand how it shapes us. Controls us. Moves us.

Used consciously, uncertainty becomes influence.

The pause before replying.

 The unanswered message.

 The carefully ambiguous sentence in a negotiation.

Not deception—but restraint. Not manipulation—but awareness.

To do this ethically requires self-knowledge first. You have to understand how uncertainty disarms you before you can prevent it from ruling you.

I’ve started researching this idea more deeply, and I plan to share what I find.

If this resonates, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

After all… not knowing who’s reading is part of the experiment. 😉