I thought I knew

My grandma has always carried maps.

Campgrounds.
Trailheads. Adventures.
My grandpa drove.
She unfolded the map.

They lived in the glove box,
or tucked behind the passenger seat,
waiting for their turn.

I loved the papery smell.
The crisp folds.
The quiet confidence
of all those little lines.

And she unfolded them
with a kind of reverence,
as if someone,
somewhere,
had already solved the problem.

I admired maps.

They never seemed
to question themselves.

Neither did my grandma.

These little rectangles of knowledge seemed so considerate,
always pretending
the world would stay still
long enough
to be folded into paper.

It takes me longer than most
to learn the way.

I still miss turns
to places
I've been
a hundred times.

Curiously,

getting lost
has never frightened me.

Directions have.

I thought I knew.

When I was younger,
certainty fit me well.

I wore opinions
before they had calluses.

I planned
five-year futures
in permanent ink.

I thought I knew.

Then life
refused to stay folded, and I ignored the directions.

Roads closed.

New ones opened.

People
I expected to stay
left.

People
I never expected
appeared.

Apparently,
knowledge comes
with questions
hidden in the packaging.

The world
kept introducing itself.

And every introduction
made certainty
a little quieter.

I thought I knew.

Now,
I don't know.

Not where I'll be
next year.

Not which road
will ask me
to begin again.

But somewhere
along the way,

not knowing
stopped feeling
like failure.

It started feeling
like room.

Room
to be surprised.

Room
to change.

Room
for people
to become
more than their past.
Room
for second chances.

Even my own.

I used to think
growing older
meant collecting answers.

Instead,

I've collected
better questions.

And gratitude.

For old dreams
that carried me here.

For detours.

For books
that leave me quieter
than they found me.

For music
made by hands
that practiced
long before
they performed.

For sunsets
that never asked
whether I'd earned them.

For storms
that reminded me
the sky
survives itself.

I still admire maps.

Not because they're right.

Because they're hopeful.

Someone walked this road
and thought,

"This might help."

They were right.

And they were incomplete.

The map
was never wrong.

It just couldn't imagine
what happened next.

These days,

I believe
more than I know.

I believe
in kindness.

In patience.

In trying again.

In telling the truth
gently.

In slowing down.

In leaving room
for wonder.

I believe
that hearts
can heal
long before
they believe they have.

And maybe
that's faith—

not knowing
where the road leads,

only trusting

that the next bend
is worth walking.