I don’t know anything. I don’t mind admitting that, but I have a problem meaning it. I like to think I know at least some things; how to tie a shoe or write a poem, for example. But then I
remember how small I am. There’s a video somewhere of people ages 5 to 99 giving advice in chronological order. It starts adorably, then deepens, then grows sweet and morbid. It ends with a 99-year-old man staring directly into the camera. He says, “None of the people who just spoke know anything they’re talking about.” The implication is that he doesn’t either.
I’ve had plenty of hints that point to the fact that I know nothing. I once met a woman who everyone said I would like, and I got a strange feeling about her. A few of her words settled weirdly in my gut. When she came up in discussion, I told my friend, “I get an off vibe, and I’m usually not wrong about people.” (I am usually wrong about people.) Within weeks, that woman was a kind, needed mentor.
When Robby and I started dating, I knew it wouldn’t last more than a few months. We didn’t mesh. I didn’t want 
anything serious. He was decently older. My reasons were myriad and the belief felt completely true. The pile of rationalizations behind our fictional, encroaching downfall has since morphed into three years, a puppy, and a lease.
I wish my gut helped me more. My dreams bring clarity, but my conscious mind restlessly invents unbased fears. The resulting anxiety can be paralyzing. I’ve found ways to keep it at bay: steady breathing, a night of sleep, sometimes a run. I’ve never wanted to admit the label of “anxious” because it mars the careful, false perception I have of myself. But when recurring fears boiled over last week, I decided to seek guidance.
There’s a life coach who goes to my family’s church. Although I wasn’t quite clear on what a life coach did, I knew her personally and her title was less intimidating than “psychologist.” I sent her an email and she Skyped me from Charlotte. At one point in our talk, she asked me to write down my perception of something that scared me. When I read a few of the sentences to her, she said, “Look at all of the phrases you wrote down. Are any of them facts?” They weren’t. My fear was based off of my interpretation of reality, not reality itself.
My anxiety arises from brazen certainty. I don’t believe something will fail; I know it. My longtime 
confidence in a shaky gut has led me into houses of mirrors where truth and fiction look equally feasible but also contrived. Ignoring fear, or buying into it, gently fuels the circus. Focusing on reality is already helping immensely, and I’ve based my quest for calm around a truth I’ve come to cherish: I don’t know anything.
I’m watching my puppy dig a small hole in the middle of a junky dog park. He digs for a moment, then meanders past an overturned boat to peer through ivy. The cars pass and he sniffs. He doesn’t wonder where they’re going or if one of them will crash through the fence. He licks a piece of ivy and savors the taste, then buries it in the earth.