The night is quiet. The soft hum of crickets drifts through the window, mixing with the steady rhythm of my boys breathing in their sleep. It’s moments like this, when the house settles, that I find space to remember why all of this matters.

Wenny’s laughter from dinner still lingers, and my parents just left after an evening that felt simple and good. Old stories. Small jokes that still make my father’s shoulders shake. Even Loki, belly full from his late walk, is curled up in the corner. He doesn’t worry about tomorrow’s questions. He just wants to know I’m here.

And yet, I sit here tonight with a question that refuses to let me rest.

What does it mean to lead when you don’t have all the answers?

What happens when people look to you for certainty, but all you have is a quiet, honest “I don’t know”?

We’re taught to believe that admitting uncertainty is weakness. That gaps in our knowledge make us less. But what if that’s not true? What if “I don’t know” is the doorway to trust? What if it’s the sign that you’re human enough to listen, and strong enough to keep going anyway?

The Gaps We Pretend Not to See

When I think of leaders who saw the uncomfortable truth and stood in it anyway, I think of Lincoln. In his time, slavery was normal. Accepted by those with power, justified by law, profitable for those who didn’t have to feel its cruelty. He didn’t have a perfect plan to undo centuries of wrong. But he couldn’t look away. He saw the gap between what was comfortable and what was right. And he stood there, knowing it would cost him.

In my smaller way, I’ve tasted that same tension. When we started Stellar, we had nothing but a handful of children, a rented building, and a promise that education could be more than grades and fees. When we decided to grow from preschool to an international school, and now a campus built with purpose in mind, people called us naive. Some still do. Sometimes I agreed with them, at least for a moment. But I couldn’t unsee the gap. What if schools didn’t just prepare kids to pass exams, but prepared them to lead lives that matter?

Remembering the Bridge

There’s an old Chinese saying: “When you drink water, remember its source.” Another says, “Don’t tear down the bridge after you cross it.” I’ve carried those words with me for years. They sound simple, but they’re easy to say and harder to live.

When Stellar was young, we agreed with our landlord to a simple profit-sharing model. No base rent. Just a share of our revenue. For a fledgling school, that was life-saving. When COVID hit, that arrangement was a bridge that held us above the flood. Gratitude is simple when you’re the one in need. But what about when you’re doing well?

As we grew, the conversation changed. Some in the team asked me, “Do we really have to declare every cent of revenue? They’ll never know if we keep a little more.” I understood where that question came from. It would have been easy to justify. We’d built this, carried the risk. But I didn’t hesitate. “Yes. We disclose everything.”

Not because we’re saints. Not because we enjoy paying more. But because trust is built when it costs you something. Once you bend your word for convenience, it never sits straight again. One small secret becomes two. Then trust leaks through the cracks.

That bridge still holds, all these years later. We didn’t burn it because it got inconvenient. We keep crossing it, even now. Some might call that foolish. But if being foolish means keeping your word, I’ll take that title every time.

Standing Where It’s Not Comfortable

Sometimes, the gaps are bigger than one deal or one school. I think about the undocumented children in Malaysia. Generations born without an IC. Invisible on paper but as real as my sons sleeping down the hall. Everyone knows it’s a problem, but fixing it offends the powerful, risks votes, invites blame. So we pretend the gap isn’t there.

But real leadership means seeing the gap and standing in it, even when you don’t know exactly how to fix it.

It’s saying, “This isn’t right. I don’t have every answer, but I won’t look away.”

That’s the quiet courage that keeps me up tonight. The courage that remembers where you came from, keeps your feet planted on principle, and stays grateful for the bridges that carried you when you had nothing.

Sometimes, leading means standing still when everyone else shrugs and walks away. Sometimes, it means confessing you don’t know, and choosing to keep going anyway.

The Strength in “I Don’t Know”

Some people think leadership means you always have the answer. The map, the plan, the clear instructions when everyone else feels lost. But the longer I live this, the more I see it differently. Pretending to know everything might make you look strong for a while. But it keeps everyone else small.

Sometimes the strongest thing you can say is, “I don’t know. But I trust us to find out.”

I remember the first time I truly tested this. I was just a junior lecturer then, barely older than the students in my class. One afternoon, a student asked me a question that knocked the breath out of me. I felt that pull to bluff my way through. But I looked at him and said, “I’m not sure. Let’s figure it out together.” For a moment, it felt like tearing off a mask. But something shifted. The room didn’t shrink. It grew. The conversation came alive. They didn’t see me as clueless. They saw me as real. That bond lasted longer than any single answer could have.

Years later, that small habit is still what I lean on. Sometimes my team looks at me, waiting for the final word. And some days I don’t have it. All I can say is, “I don’t know. But I trust us to get there.” That line holds more trust than pretending ever could.

When “I Don’t Know” Builds More Than You Think

There are times when “I don’t know” is more than humility. It is wisdom that builds something stronger than one person.

When it is technical, let it go. Some questions need the right hands. If a parent asks me about a new visa detail or a tax rule, I won’t fake it. “I don’t know. Let’s ask the people who handle this every day.” One clear answer is better than a thousand polished guesses.

When it is new, stay open. When we went from one preschool to a full international school, the easy advice was to copy what others had done. But our families were different. Our story was different. So we said, “I don’t know yet. Let’s listen first, then build what fits.” That posture still shapes us.

When you want better ideas, hold back. Even when you think you have the answer, a pause can open more doors than a speech. I have seen it again and again. Once the leader speaks too soon, people stop thinking. Sometimes a simple, “I’m not sure. What do you see?” brings out ideas you never would have found alone.

When you want people to truly own it, invite them in. People protect what they help shape. It is like building a crooked shelf with your own hands. You see every flaw, but you stand by it because it is yours. Leadership is the same. “I don’t know. Show me what I’m missing.” That one line gives people the space to stand taller.

The Mirror Between Parenting and Leadership

I spoke to my children about this: I was never the smartest kid in my class. I did not have the best grades or the neatest path. But somehow, I have helped raise students and teammates who now stand taller than me. That humbles me every single time.

Some people have perfect scores, spotless titles, but no one ever grows taller around them. That is not leadership. That is performance. Parenting shows me the same thing. I do not want my boys to wait for my instructions forever. I want to stand in the crowd one day, clapping as they run further than I ever could. That is my hope for my team too. If they still need me for every solution, maybe I performed well, but I never truly led. But if they look at each other and say, “We have got this,” then I know it was real.

The Quiet Reverse That Stays With Me

Here is the truth I keep close.

The opposite of “I don’t know” is not “I know.”

It is, “I don’t need your voice.”

When you shut out voices, you shrink what could have grown beyond you.

Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is stand there and say, “I don’t know, but I trust us.” Courage to confess. Conviction to continue. That is how you raise people who one day look you in the eye and say, “We have got this. Sit down now.” That is the best proof you ever led at all.

A Simple Reminder

Next time you feel that pull to hold every answer, pause.

Try, “I don’t know. What do you see?”

It is not giving up. It is giving room for something bigger to grow.