I’ve used the word "confused" so many times it’s lost its shape. I used it like a shield. Or maybe a blanket. Something to pull over my head when the reality of a relationship felt a bit too cold, a bit too sharp to touch with my bare hands.
We say it all the time, don’t we? "I’m just so confused about us." "I’m confused by what they said." It sounds so innocent. It sounds like a math problem we haven't solved yet. Like if we just keep staring at the numbers, eventually, the logic will click and everything will make sense.
But I've been thinking... lately. I’m not sure... maybe "confusion" is just a polite word we use for things we already know but aren't ready to feel yet.
There is a difference between a mystery and a mess. A mystery is when information is missing. A mess is when all the information is right there on the floor, but it’s so ugly we’d rather keep the lights off. We call it confusion because confusion implies that the answer is still "out there." It gives us an excuse to stay. To wait. To keep asking the same questions because we don't like the only answer we've been given.
Think about the last time you felt truly "confused" by someone’s behavior. Was it really a puzzle? Or was it just... inconsistent?
Inconsistency is very rarely a mystery. It’s usually a message. But we are so good at translating that message into something else. We turn a "no" into a "maybe later." We turn a "I'm not sure about you" into a "They’re just scared of how much they love me." It’s a beautiful talent, really. The way we can spin straw into gold just so we don't have to admit we're holding a handful of hay.
Clarity feels uncomfortable. That’s the secret no one tells you. Everyone says they want clarity, but clarity is actually quite painful. It’s sharp. It’s final. Clarity means the "potential" is gone and you’re left with the "actual." And the actual is often just a person who isn't showing up for you.
I remember sitting with a friend, complaining about a guy who would disappear for weeks and then come back with a "thinking of you" text. I told her, "I’m just so confused by his signals."
She didn't look up from her coffee. She just said, "There’s nothing to be confused about. He’s showing you exactly how much space you occupy in his life. You just don't like the size of the room."
That stung. It was a tiny "刺"—a thorn. It wasn't mean, but it was true. And truth has a way of making you feel suddenly, uncomfortably sober.
Sometimes, we stay in the "confused" state because it feels safer than the "unclear" reality. Confusion is a project. We can analyze the texts. We can talk to our friends for hours. We can buy books like this one. We can draw tarot cards and look for a hidden meaning in the Two of Swords. As long as we’re "working on the confusion," we’re still in the game.
But what if the confusion is the answer?
What if the lack of clarity is actually the most honest signal they could ever give you?
I'm starting to believe that if you have to ask someone where you stand, you’re already standing in a place they haven't made a priority. That’s a hard thing to write. It’s an even harder thing to read when you’re currently waiting for a text back. I’m sorry. I really am. I know how much that realization feels like a heavy weight in the pit of your stomach.
We avoid clarity because clarity usually means we have to make a choice. And choosing often means losing. Losing the hope. Losing the "what if." Losing the person we’ve been imagining in our heads, who is so much better than the person who actually exists in our phones.
Let's slow down a bit. I don't want this to feel like a lecture. I'm just... I'm trying to be honest with you because I wish someone had been this honest with me when I was crying over a "seen" receipt at 2 AM.
Confusion is often just avoidance wearing a fancy hat.
We avoid seeing the patterns. Patterns are the only thing that actually matters in a relationship. Not the one night they were perfect. Not the one deep conversation you had three months ago. Not the "spark." Just the patterns.
Does the pattern show consistency?
Does the pattern show effort?
Does the pattern show that they care about your peace of mind?
If the pattern is a mess, the relationship is a mess. It’s not a mystery to be solved. It’s a fact to be accepted. And acceptance... God, it’s so quiet. It’s so heavy. It feels like a door closing in a house you thought you were going to live in forever.
I've realized that we often use Tarot or astrology or any kind of "sign" to try and bypass this discomfort. We want a card to tell us, "Don't worry, they’re just going through a hard time." We want the stars to say, "The timing is just off." We want anything that allows us to stay in the waiting room just a little bit longer.
But the cards... they’re just mirrors. They don't have secrets. They just show you what you're trying not to see. If you pull the Moon card, it’s not just about "mystery." It’s about the things that are hidden in the shadows because you're afraid to turn on the light.
I think... maybe... we should stop trying to "clear up" the confusion. Maybe we should just let the situation be exactly what it is: unclear.
There is a strange kind of power in saying: "I don't know what this is, but I do know how it makes me feel. And it makes me feel anxious. It makes me feel small. It makes me feel like I'm constantly auditioning."
Once you stop trying to solve the mystery, you can actually look at the person. Not the "potential" person. Not the "if only" person. Just the person who is currently leaving you in the dark. Is that the person you actually want? Or are you just in love with the idea of finally winning them over?
I’m not sure. I can’t answer that for you. No one can.
But I do know that clarity, even the painful kind, is the only thing that will ever set you free. Everything else is just a slow-motion car crash that you're choosing to stay in because you like the music playing on the radio.
Maybe tonight, you can just sit with the "unclear." You don't have to fix it. You don't have to text them. You don't have to analyze anything. Just feel the discomfort of not knowing. It’s okay. It’s actually more than okay. It’s the first step toward something that actually makes sense.
The "刺"—the thorn—is there to remind you that you're still alive. And that you deserve to be in a garden where you don't have to bleed just to hold on to a rose.
Take your time. We're going to talk about the cards soon. But before we do, I just wanted to make sure we’re looking at the same map. The map where "I don't know" is sometimes the loudest "No" you'll ever hear.
(The silence that follows clarity is not the end... it’s just the beginning of a different conversation with yourself.)
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