I don't know

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Whatever Happened to “I Don’t Know”?

In a world of instant answers, we may be losing the simplest form of honesty.

“I don’t know” used to be an honest beginning. Today, it feels almost like an awkward pause we rush to fill.

Somewhere between ambition and authority, we quietly pushed “I don’t know” out of our vocabulary. It was once simply honesty. Today, it is often mistaken for hesitation.

As a young teacher at The Bishop’s School, Pune, I first taught Grades 5 and 6. A year later, I moved to Grades 7 and 8, and then, almost without ceremony, straight into Grades 9 and 10—the board classes. I hesitated, not out of reluctance, but from that familiar early-career doubt of whether one is truly ready for what is being asked.

But I took it on.

There was no Google then, no ChatGPT either—only Encyclopedia Britannica and a willingness to learn while teaching. It was a simple rhythm: teach, learn, adjust, and teach again. Slowly, confidence settled. The classroom became familiar, though never entirely predictable.

Then came poetry, Shakespeare, and questions that didn’t always offer neat answers. That is when I realised something simple but important: it is perfectly fine not to know.

If I didn’t understand something, I would tell the class, “I don’t know. Let me find out.” I never felt the need to pretend. The boys were sharp—they would have known anyway. More importantly, honesty mattered more than performance. And strangely, those were often the moments when the classroom felt most real.

Sometimes Britannica helped. Sometimes it didn’t. And when it didn’t, there was Mr Beeman.

Mr Beeman was a retired principal of Sherwood College, Nainital—a man of discipline, precision, and quiet authority. One did not simply walk in and meet him; one asked for time properly, as though stepping into a space where thinking itself had order.

At the appointed hour, I would climb the wooden stairs of Cambridge Block, knock on his door, and wait. He would have just finished corrections or listening to the BBC news, sitting in a short window of quiet.

I would ask my questions—often about poets, authors, or Shakespeare. Sometimes a line that resisted meaning, sometimes the background of a text, sometimes the world behind a word.

“Excuse me, Mr Beeman, I am trying to understand this—could you help me think it through?”

He would listen first—properly listen—and then respond with a clarity and patience that no textbook ever managed to replicate. I would take notes, go back, reflect, and reshape the lesson. The next day, I would walk into class and say, without hesitation, “I checked this with Mr Beeman, and here is what I understand.” No pretence. Just learning.

I still meet some of those boys now—working professionals, many far more worldly than we were then—and we often look back on those school days with fondness, amused at how life has unfolded for all of us.

Over time, I have noticed something subtle in professional life. Language has become more indirect—not to hide meaning, but to manage uncertainty. We “circle back,” “take it offline,” “align internally,” or “park it for now.” We “move things forward,” even when clarity is still forming. None of this is wrong, but it often replaces something simpler: the ability to say we don’t yet know.

This becomes most visible in interviews and professional conversations. Answers are structured and polished, which is important, but even when the question invites uncertainty, people rarely pause to acknowledge it.

Perhaps it is because information is so easily available today that we are expected to always appear prepared. In that process, social pressure quietly makes it harder to simply say, “I don’t know,” even when it would be the most honest response.

And I often wonder how it would land if someone simply said, “Sorry, I don’t know that yet—but I am willing to learn.”

Somewhere along the way, we began to equate certainty with competence—as though doubt weakens capability, instead of being the first stage of understanding.

But in real work—especially in education—certainty is rarely where things begin. It usually comes later, after thinking, trying, and sometimes failing.

It makes you wonder: when was the last time we, as professionals, said quite simply, “I don’t know”?

And when someone younger in a team or classroom says it, how do we receive it? Do we see it as honesty in the process of learning, or do we, even unintentionally, expect a more polished answer?

We rarely notice how quickly certainty gets rewarded—and how quietly openness gets pushed aside.

This matters deeply in schools. Children should feel comfortable saying “I don’t know” without hesitation—not as failure, but as thinking aloud. When received well, it is often the most honest starting point of learning.

Of course, honesty does not need an audience. Learning does not need declarations; it needs space, trust, and patience. Most understanding begins in that quiet space where thinking is still forming, not yet fixed.

Education, at its core, is not only about correct answers. It is about building the confidence to sit with not knowing, without rushing to fill the gap.

Which brings me back to those three words.

“I don’t know.”

Perhaps they have not disappeared. Perhaps they have simply gone quiet—waiting to be welcomed back into classrooms, workplaces, and conversations where they are not judged, but understood.

Because in education and leadership, the goal is not to remove uncertainty.

It is to create environments where it is safe to think, safe to question, and safe to be unfinished.

And sometimes, real learning begins right there—with the courage to simply say:

“I don’t know.”