Trusting What I Can’t See Yet

I’ve always been someone who likes to know what’s next.

Not in a rigid way
but in a way that feels responsible.
Grounded.
Prepared.

I’ve built a life and a career around clarity.
Around helping others navigate complexity with intention and direction.

So not knowing?

That’s never been comfortable for me.

And yet, there I was in Portugal…

standing at the edge of the water,
watching waves move in and out
without any need to explain themselves.

No plan.
No urgency.
No attachment to outcome.

Just movement.
Just trust.

And something about that stayed with me.

Because if I’m honest,
I didn’t come to Portugal with everything figured out.

There were questions I had been carrying—
quietly, persistently.

Questions about what’s next.
About what I’m building.
About what I’m being called toward.

The kind of questions that don’t have immediate answers.
The kind that sit with you.

And in the stillness, they got louder.

Not in a chaotic way—
but in a way that asked me to pay attention.

To stop trying to solve them.
And instead… sit with them.

That was the shift.

I realized I had been trying to think my way into clarity
when what I actually needed
was to trust my way into it.

And those are not the same.

Thinking wants resolution.
Trust requires surrender.

Thinking asks: What’s the plan?
Trust asks: What feels aligned?

Thinking wants guarantees.
Trust moves without them.

That’s harder than it sounds.

Because trust doesn’t remove uncertainty.
It changes your relationship to it.

It asks you to move forward
without full visibility.

To take the next step
without needing to see the entire path.

To believe
not blindly,
but deeply
that something is unfolding
even when you can’t yet name it.

There’s a version of me
that would have resisted this.

That would have pushed harder for answers.
That would have tried to map everything out
before taking a step forward.

But that version of me is shifting.

Not disappearing,
just softening.

Making space for something else.

Something quieter.
Something more grounded.

A different kind of knowing.

The kind that doesn’t come from urgency
or external validation.

But from within.

From being still long enough
to recognize what is already there.

I didn’t leave Portugal with a clear plan.

I left with something more honest than that.

A willingness.

A willingness to trust what I can’t yet see.
To move without forcing.
To let alignment guide me instead of fear.

And to believe that not knowing
doesn’t mean I’m lost.

It might mean
I’m exactly where I need to be.

We don’t talk enough about this part of leadership.

The part where you’re in between.
Where the old version of you no longer fits
and the next version hasn’t fully arrived.

It’s uncomfortable.

But it’s also sacred.

Because this is where trust is built.

Not when everything is clear.
But when it’s not
and you choose to move anyway.

Not because you have all the answers.
But because you trust yourself enough
to find them along the way.