Some questions stay with us longer than the answers.
I’ve been thinking about that lately.
Not the practical questions that fill our days.
What time is the meeting?
Did I remember to send the email?
Where did I leave my glasses?
Those questions arrive and depart quickly.
I’m talking about the larger questions.
The ones that follow us for years.
The ones that quietly shape who we become.
Looking back, I realize that much of my life has been guided by questions.
As a pharmacist, I often wondered why two patients taking the same medication could have entirely different experiences.
Why did one improve while another struggled?
Why did some patients ask questions and others remain silent?
Why did certain conversations seem to change everything?
As a writer, the questions changed form.
Why do some stories stay with us while others fade?
Why do certain moments become memories while countless others disappear?
What makes one observation meaningful and another forgettable?
Even as a child, I suspect I was collecting questions.
Why did people behave the way they did?
Why did adults say one thing and do another?
What stories existed beneath the stories everyone could see?
At the time, I didn’t realize those questions were preparing me to become a writer.
I thought I was paying attention.
Perhaps there isn’t much difference.
The older I get, the more I appreciate that questions are not merely tools for finding answers.
They are instruments of curiosity.
Questions keep us engaged.
They keep us humble.
They remind us that there is always more to learn.
In healthcare, I learned that asking one additional question often revealed the most important information.
In leadership, I discovered that the quality of decisions often depended upon the quality of the questions being asked.
In writing, I’ve learned that stories frequently begin with a question rather than a conclusion.
What happened?
Why did it happen?
What does it mean?
The danger, I think, is believing that we eventually outgrow curiosity.
That expertise somehow replaces wonder.
Yet the people I admire most seem to move in the opposite direction.
They become more curious with age, not less.
They continue asking questions.
They remain fascinated by people.
By ideas.
By possibilities.
By the complexity of human experience.
Perhaps that is one reason I enjoy spending time with writers.
And scientists.
And physicians.
And lifelong learners of every kind.
They understand that certainty is often overrated.
Curiosity, on the other hand, continues to open doors.
A good question can start a conversation.
A career.
A friendship.
A book.
Sometimes even a new chapter of life.
When I think about the years ahead, I don’t find myself focused on having all the answers.
I find myself hoping I never lose the questions.
The questions that make me look a little closer.
Listen a little longer.
Notice a little more.
Because looking back, the questions have never really left.
They’ve become more interesting.
Always noticing,
