American creativity researchers write that the three most difficult words in the English language are “I don’t know.” No wonder. Our entire education system is built on ingesting information. I learned it - well done, an A. If you don’t know, sit down, deuce. A successful and self-confident person is considered to be one who can quickly, without hesitation, answer any question. Then we say: yes, this is a specialist, this is a professional. How can a professional not know something? What then is his professionalism? But here's the problem. Our brain works in such a way that usually the quick answer turns out to be the most hackneyed, banal, and stereotyped. Already formulated and polished. Repeated many times in different ways or overheard somewhere. That's why it's fast. A quick response helps save energy and mental strength. Which path to choose? Where can I succeed. What kind of man am I looking for? Smart and rich - to support me and the children. “I don’t know” is a completely different song. Makes you stop, think, listen to yourself. Ask yourself difficult, unpleasant questions, the answer to which is not so obvious. What is success? Do I want this success? How will my efforts and results compare along this path? Is the game worth the candle? Why should I get married? What am I ready to give and what do I want to receive? What am I ready to sacrifice, what to give up? “I don’t know” - this is psychotherapy. Always an open door, always an open road. Along which you don’t know where you’ll get and whether you’ll get there at all. But she is definitely yours - chosen by you. As in the poem by Robert Frost: The edge is the fork of two roads. I chose with great reluctance, But I couldn’t choose two at once And the clearing that I neglected I ran with my eyes until the turn. The second - the one I chose - attracted with untrodden grass: Tread it down - the goal is above all praise, Although those who once tortured the path here, She herself trampled pretty much. And both lined their step with leaves - And the choice, all its sadness, softened. Unchosen, your hour will strike! But, remembering how tortuous any path is, I knew at the fork that I would hardly return. And if life becomes unbearable, I will remember the long-ago choice involuntarily: A fork in two roads - I chose the one, Where you bypass travelers a mile away. Everything else does not matter.