There was a time in my life when “I don’t know” felt like failure.
A full stop.
An admission I couldn’t afford.

So I said yes.
Even when I wasn’t sure.
Even when I was quietly holding my breath and hoping I could figure it out before anyone noticed.

One of those times was when I was first starting out in programming.
I was self-taught ... using Flash and what was then called ActionScript.
I wasn’t trained, but I was clever.
I could take apart existing programs and rework them into something new.
It impressed people ... including my boss.

One day, he walked over to my desk, excited.
He had an idea.
A new project.
He dropped it on my lap and said, “Can you finish this in a week?”
And I said yes.

I didn’t really know how.
Not in the way he thought I did.
There’s a big difference between editing code and building something from scratch.
But in that moment, all I saw was trust in his eyes.
He believed in me.
So I nodded... and silently panicked.

This was the early 2000s.
There were no YouTube tutorials.
No coding communities ready to answer your midnight cries for help.
You either paid for classes or figured it out on your own.

That week was heavy.
Not because I was lazy or incapable ... but because I wasn’t honest.
Not with him.
Not with myself.

And I felt it.
I felt like a fraud.

When the deadline came, I told him the truth:
The complexity of the project was a few levels above what I was ready for.
But I had pivoted.
Found another way.
Delivered the result ... less flashy, but it worked.

He didn’t scold me.
He didn’t fire me.
But something in the air shifted.
And I felt it more than he said it.

The year before, that same boss had overheard me speaking Japanese in the hallway.
It was on my resume, but he was stunned ... said most people lie about things like that.
He believed me then.
Trusted me enough to send me to Japan on a project I wasn’t even meant to lead.
And that trust ... that belief ... stayed with him.
Until it cracked.

Not because I lied.
But because I didn’t offer the full picture.
And that kind of silence can feel like betrayal... even when it’s not meant to.

Since then, I’ve carried a different kind of awareness.
When someone hires me, I evaluate the role myself.
I find the critical function ... the one I know I can serve ... and I commit to that.
If there’s a gap, I say it up front.
No illusions. No bluffs.

Because now I know:
Saying “I don’t know” doesn’t end the conversation.
Sometimes, it starts the real one.

Not knowing doesn’t mean you’re not capable.
It means you’re still in motion.
Still learning.
Still honest.

And when you've built real trust ... the kind that isn’t based on pretending ...
then saying “I don’t know” becomes something else entirely.
It becomes a signal:
I’m willing to know. I’m able to know.
And a good boss… should never say no to that.