Why Uncertainty Feels So Uncomfortable

I think when many of us think about uncertainty, we don’t automatically connect it to some of the mental health struggles we experience. We know when something feels uncertain, of course. We’re waiting for the test result. We don’t know how someone feels about us. We’re trying to make a decision without knowing how it will turn out. We sent the email and haven’t gotten a response.

But we may be less aware of what happens next.

Something feels uncertain, and before we’ve fully registered what’s happening, our minds can launch us into a funnel of what ifs. What if I made the wrong choice? What if this gets worse? What if they’re upset? What if I missed something? What if I regret this?

If you’ve ever experienced this particular ride, you already know it is one of the farthest things from fun.

But what if uncertainty itself isn’t actually the whole problem? What if one of the bigger drivers is our intolerance of it?

There is actually a name for this in psychological research: intolerance of uncertainty. It describes the tendency to experience not knowing as particularly difficult, aversive, or threatening. Researchers initially studied it heavily in relation to worry and generalized anxiety, but it has since been associated with a much broader range of mental health concerns, including OCD, panic, social anxiety, trauma-related symptoms, and depression.

Which makes sense when you start looking for it in real life.

Think about how many decisions can look completely reasonable from the outside while, internally, they are being fueled by our inability to tolerate not knowing.

We research for three more hours because maybe there is one piece of information we haven’t found yet. We ask someone what they think, feel better for twenty minutes, and then ask someone else. We reread the message. Check the symptom. Revisit the decision we already made. Run the conversation through our heads one more time.

Sometimes we do the opposite. We don’t make the decision at all. We wait until we feel more certain. We avoid the conversation. We stay where we are because choosing something means accepting that we cannot know exactly what happens next.

Those behaviors can look completely different. One person is doing everything. Another person appears to be doing nothing.

Underneath both can be the same request:

Please make the uncertainty go away.

When thinking becomes an attempt at certainty

This is where uncertainty connects to something we’ve talked about before in the Journal: overthinking.

Thinking is useful. Planning is useful. Gathering information before making an important decision is generally a pretty solid life strategy.

The problem is that there is a point at which we are no longer gathering information to make a better decision. We are gathering information because we are hoping to finally feel certain enough to make one. And certainty is an incredibly seductive finish line because it keeps moving. There is always another possibility to consider. Another opinion to get. Another article to read. Another version of the future we haven’t accounted for.

Research on intolerance of uncertainty has found a particularly strong relationship with worry. That matters because worry can function like an attempt to mentally prepare for what we cannot predict. If I think about enough possibilities, maybe nothing will catch me off guard. If I anticipate every outcome, maybe I’ll know what to do. If I understand everything that could happen, perhaps I can finally relax.

Except eventually we have to live in a world that refuses to provide that guarantee. And that’s where the distinction becomes important.

A good decision and a certain decision are not the same thing.

We can make thoughtful decisions with incomplete information. We can choose someone without knowing exactly how the relationship will unfold. We can send the application without knowing whether we'll get the job. We can have the difficult conversation without knowing how the other person will respond. We can make a parenting decision without knowing whether our child will someday describe it to their therapist. That last one may be asking a little much, but we can try.

Being thoughtful does not require being certain.

Why reassurance feels so good

This also helps explain why reassurance can be so compelling. When we feel uncertain and someone gives us information that makes us feel more certain, we feel better. Of course we do. That relief is real. The problem is that relief and learning aren't necessarily the same thing.

If every time uncertainty becomes uncomfortable we immediately check, research, ask, avoid, review, or otherwise find a way to make the feeling stop, we may get very good at obtaining temporary relief without ever discovering something else:

We can tolerate not knowing.

Not perfectly. Not comfortably every time. And certainly not because uncertainty suddenly becomes pleasant.

But because discomfort and danger are not synonymous. That distinction matters.

Our minds and bodies are designed to pay attention to things that might matter, and uncertainty can make it harder to determine whether something is safe. Research on threat learning suggests that people who struggle more with uncertainty may also have more difficulty updating their responses when something previously associated with threat becomes safe.

Which means sometimes the question underneath all of our scanning isn't simply:

Am I safe?

It's:

Can I be completely sure I'm safe?

Those are very different standards.

One allows us to use the information available to us. The other can keep us searching indefinitely.

Maybe we don't have to solve the uncertainty

I wonder what would happen if, instead of trying to remove uncertainty before making a choice, we became more aware of the choices we make because uncertainty is present.

Am I researching this because I genuinely need more information—or because I want the discomfort to stop?

Am I asking for another opinion because I value this person's perspective—or because the first three answers haven't made me feel certain enough?

Am I postponing this decision because I actually need more time—or because making it means accepting that I cannot control what happens afterward?

There isn't always a clean answer. Sometimes we really do need more information. Sometimes waiting is wise. Sometimes checking again is exactly what the situation calls for.

This isn't about turning uncertainty tolerance into another rule we have to perform correctly. It's about noticing who is making the decision. You—or your need to stop not knowing. Because maybe the goal was never to become comfortable with every unknown. Maybe it is to become capable of acknowledging uncertainty without automatically organizing our lives around escaping it.

To make thoughtful choices knowing we cannot guarantee their outcomes. To allow a question to remain unanswered without assuming it requires our immediate attention. To recognize that I don't know yet is information, too.

And perhaps, over time, something shifts.

We stop waiting for certainty to give us permission to move and we begin trusting ourselves enough to move while some uncertainty remains.

Not because we know exactly what happens next.

But because we are learning that we don't always have to.