Is it better to know?

‘Knowledge is Power.’ It’s a bold statement, radiating certainty with its absoluteness—whatever lies ahead, the more you know about it, the better equipped you are. Yes! But then… no, or at least, maybe not always.

In some cases, there’s no doubt that prior knowledge or early understanding leads to better outcomes. Medically, financially, logistically—all the practical ‘-allys’—information is a clear advantage. Knowing a diagnosis can save a life; understanding a budget can avert ruin. But step outside those tidy boxes, and the picture blurs. In relationships, for instance, what happens when you learn someone’s hidden truth? The knowledge might sharpen your insight—or fracture the trust that thrived in ignorance. Sometimes, not knowing keeps us open, unguarded, free to feel without the weight of certainty.

Then there’s the creative realm—artistically, musically—where foresight can stifle more than it fuels. What would a painting be like if an artist knew exactly what the finished piece would become? A blueprint, not a discovery. Or imagine a musician stepping up for a solo, only to replay familiar notes and phrases. Where’s the spark in that?

Let’s dig deeper into music as an example. Music is both defined and undefined, controlled yet set free. We can pinpoint which parts of the brain it activates, but how those activations translate into feelings remains elusive. Why does a certain piece hit us so hard—emotionally, physically—when it resonates? Does the magic lies in its in-betweenness? It’s constrained by structure—musical keys, diatonic notes, time signatures, and all the tools that help a group of players sound coherent. Yet, in contrast, there’s the soloist. Picture Miles Davis, horn in hand, his voice breaking free from those constraints. He expresses not just the joy of rising above constraints, creating honestly and authentically in the moment, but the essence of himself—raw and unguarded. It’s a reaching outward, a plea to the listener: ‘Hear me, understand me.’

But he’s only half the equation. You’re there too, leaning in, catching those notes as they spill into the air. Do you hear the tremble of his fragile joy, the shadow of his ever-present ache? His freedom hangs unfinished until you meet it with your own resonance, when it blooms into a shared leap into the undefined. That collision, that connection, might be where the real power lives, not in the knowing, but in the meeting of two unknowns.

Miles famously said ‘there are no mistakes,’ and within the freedom and security of that space, we explore beyond the written, the predetermined. It’s a space where possibility surrounds us, where the courageous can flourish—or perish under the weight of infinite choices. Picture the musician again: one freezes mid-solo, paralysed by the vastness of what could be, the notes crumbling under doubt. Another soars, each phrase a thread pulled from some deeper well, unscripted and alive. Flourishing is the reward of daring; perishing, the cost of hesitation. Perhaps each of us seeks our own balance on that scale between flourishing and perishing, between our evolutionary craving for knowledge and safety and a deeper, internal voice urging us to show up fully in the world.

What if ‘Knowledge is Power’ has it backward? What if power lies not in grasping every answer, but in surrendering to the mystery, and letting the unknown pull us toward something truer? Standing at a junction, no map, no guide, just the quiet hum of your own instinct. The practicalities fade, and what’s left is you, listening. Maybe that’s where the thread leads: to a knowledge not of facts, but of self. A knowing that doesn’t cage us in certainty, but sets us free to wander the in-between. What if the truest knowledge is knowledge of self?