Curiosity Hangs in the Balance of Certainty

One of the greatest gifts we are born with is curiosity. A baby holds no judgment of good or bad. They crawl, wobble, and run toward the dangerous, the gross, and the shiny with equal enthusiasm. All of it is interesting. All of it is worthy of investigation.

Of course, this unfiltered devotion to curiosity is not without risk. Over time, the developing human begins to learn discernment. Fire is hot and not something to place a hand in. Mud loses some of its charm once you understand it will be tracked through the house and scrubbed from skin and clothes. Dog food becomes far less tempting, while cookies rise quickly in the rankings.

As we make more revolutions around the sun, we accumulate knowledge. We begin to know things. Our worldview settles and solidifies, and if we are not careful, curiosity quietly slips away. We start seeing the world through predetermined parameters — categories, conclusions, assumptions — and with age, those boundaries can become increasingly rigid.

The real struggle in life is learning to balance curiosity with knowing. The baby, armed only with curiosity and no discernment, cannot reliably tell danger from safety. But the adult who knows everything with certainty loses something equally vital. They no longer see the world as it is. They miss the wonder of seeing something familiar with fresh eyes. They stop noticing detail. They stop wondering, Do I actually have this right?

Curiosity invites humility. It asks us to stay open — to possibility, to nuance, to being wrong.

And in this season of giving, of sharing, of loving, a quiet portal opens for us if we choose to step through it: the opportunity to meet people and their struggles with curiosity instead of judgment. To remain open to helping in ways we didn’t expect. To love what once felt unlovable — not recklessly or without boundaries, but within that tender middle ground where curiosity and knowing coexist. Where we maintain a sense of self and safety, while still allowing ourselves to be touched by the world and its wonder.

It is an invitation to see ourselves in others. To wonder instead of judge. And to give, rather than scorn.

So maybe this season is not asking us to be right, or even to be good — but to be curious. To meet the people in front of us with a little more wonder and a little less certainty. To hold what we know lightly, and what we don’t with care. And in doing so, to rediscover that love, like curiosity, grows best where there is room to breathe.