We go into parenting, and we discover that we don't have the

The words of Julia Cameron—“We go into parenting, and we discover that we don’t have the answers. We are at a loss.”—are not merely a confession but an eternal hymn to the mystery of raising children. They remind us that to enter the path of parenthood is to step into a land unknown, where maps are incomplete, and the compass of certainty falters. Every parent, no matter how wise or prepared, will find themselves trembling before questions they cannot answer, storms they cannot predict, and burdens they cannot control. This is not weakness—it is the human truth of the sacred task.

The ancients often spoke of the humility required of those who guided others. A general may think he controls the tides of battle, yet even he cannot command the storm. A philosopher may believe he holds the key to wisdom, yet even he is confounded by the mystery of the human heart. So too is the parent: stepping boldly into the unknown, armed with hope and love, but soon realizing that children are not puzzles to be solved, but souls unfolding in their own rhythm. In confessing that we do not have the answers, Julia Cameron voices the first step of true wisdom—acknowledging that certainty is an illusion, and that growth often comes clothed in confusion.

Consider the tale of Socrates, who declared that he knew nothing. Though famed as one of the wisest men of Athens, he confessed ignorance at the core of his being. His greatness did not spring from knowing all things, but from admitting his limits and seeking truth with relentless humility. In the same way, the parent who admits they are at a loss opens the doorway to greater understanding. For it is only when we set aside the armor of false certainty that we can hear the quiet, fragile needs of the child, who speaks in ways beyond words.

History itself bears witness to this truth. Queen Victoria, a monarch who wielded power over half the known world, confessed in her journals the bewilderment she felt as a mother. Surrounded by advisors in matters of empire, she found herself without counsel in the quiet nights of motherhood, holding a crying infant whose needs could not be silenced by decree. Her rule was iron, but in the nursery she trembled. This is the paradox Julia Cameron speaks of: the mighty are humbled, and the learned are silenced when faced with the mystery of nurturing life.

Yet there is glory in this humility. To confess, “We are at a loss,” is not defeat but the opening of the soul to transformation. The parent learns not by holding all answers, but by walking the path hand-in-hand with the child, discovering together. Each misstep becomes a lesson, each moment of uncertainty a chance for love to deepen. The true strength of a parent is not in never faltering, but in continuing despite their faltering. For the child does not demand perfection—they demand presence.

The lesson, then, is clear: embrace the unknown. Do not cling to rigid formulas or compare your journey to that of others. Instead, cultivate patience, humility, and the courage to admit when you are uncertain. The greatest leaders of history were not those who pretended to know everything, but those who listened, adapted, and learned. So it is with parenting: the art lies not in mastery, but in openness.

Therefore, let your actions reflect this truth: listen more than you speak, for your child’s heart will often whisper what no book can teach. Seek guidance humbly, from elders, friends, and even from your children themselves. Accept imperfection, for your mistakes will become the soil in which love grows deeper roots. And above all, remain present, for in presence lies the answer to questions no wisdom can solve.

In Julia Cameron’s words, we find not despair but liberation. To admit we are at a loss is to step into the flow of life itself, trusting that love, not certainty, is the guiding star. Future generations must remember this: wisdom is not found in always knowing, but in never ceasing to seek, never ceasing to love, and never ceasing to walk forward—even when the path is dim.