Why Asking Questions Is a Strength, Not a Weakness

If You Don’t Know Something, Don’t Be Afraid to Ask

There’s a sentence I’ve said to myself more times than I care to admit: I should probably already know this. It’s usually followed by silence. A pause. A decision not to ask the question that’s sitting right there, perfectly formed, but somehow stuck behind pride, habit, or a quiet fear of looking foolish.

After nearly seventy years, I can say this with some confidence: that instinct—to stay quiet, to nod along, to bluff your way through—is one of the least useful habits we ever pick up. And yet, it’s remarkably hard to unlearn.

We’re told from an early age that curiosity is a virtue. Ask questions. Explore. Learn. Then, somewhere along the line—often sooner than we realise—that message gets muddied. Questions become interruptions. Admitting you don’t know something becomes a weakness. By adulthood, many of us have perfected the art of appearing informed, even when we’re not entirely sure what’s going on.

And here’s the irony: everyone else is doing exactly the same thing.

The myth of the “silly question”

Let’s get this out of the way early. There is no such thing as a silly question. There are only unasked ones—and they’re the ones that tend to cost us the most.

The phrase “silly question” usually says more about the environment than the question itself. In a healthy setting—whether that’s a classroom, a workplace, a studio, or a conversation over coffee—questions are signals of engagement. They mean someone is paying attention. They mean someone cares enough to want to understand properly.

Most of the time, the question you’re hesitating over isn’t unique. It’s simply the first one brave enough to be voiced. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve asked something tentatively, half-apologetically, only to be met with nods of relief from others who were thinking exactly the same thing.

That moment—when you realise you weren’t alone in your uncertainty—is quietly transformative.

Age doesn’t grant automatic understanding

There’s a peculiar pressure that comes with getting older. We’re expected to “know by now.” The longer you’ve been around, the stronger the assumption that confusion is no longer allowed.

But life doesn’t work like that.

The world keeps changing. Language evolves. Technology shifts. Once straightforward processes become layered and abstract. Even familiar things can take on new forms. Pretending that age equals omniscience is not only unrealistic—it’s exhausting.

What I’ve learned, slowly and sometimes reluctantly, is that asking questions later in life isn’t a sign of decline. It’s a sign of staying awake.

Curiosity doesn’t have an expiry date. If anything, it becomes more valuable with experience, because the questions get better. More nuanced. More thoughtful. Less about showing off and more about genuinely understanding.

The quiet confidence of saying “I don’t know”

There’s a subtle but important distinction between confidence and certainty. Certainty says, I have the answer. Confidence says, I’m comfortable admitting when I don’t.

The most capable people I’ve met—across all walks of life—are rarely the ones who dominate the conversation with answers. They’re the ones who ask careful, sometimes deceptively simple questions. They listen. They clarify. They’re not in a hurry to appear clever.

Saying “I don’t know” can feel like stepping off a ledge. But more often than not, it’s an invitation rather than a failure. It opens a door to discussion, learning, and shared understanding. It creates space for others to contribute without posturing.

And there’s something quietly dignified about it. No fuss. No apology. Just honesty.

Learning as a lifelong practice

If you view learning as something that ends—at school, at university, or at a particular stage of your career—then questions start to feel like admissions of inadequacy. But if learning is ongoing, questions become tools.

Some of the most meaningful progress I’ve made, personally and professionally, has come from stopping and saying, “Can you talk me through that?” Or, “I’m not sure I understand—what do you mean by…?”

Those moments rarely lead to embarrassment. More often, they lead to clarity. Sometimes they expose assumptions that need challenging anyway. Occasionally, they reveal that the thing everyone thought was obvious… wasn’t.

Progress doesn’t come from knowing everything. It comes from staying open.

The stories we tell ourselves

A lot of the resistance to asking questions lives entirely in our own heads. We imagine judgment where none exists. We assume impatience. We replay old classroom moments, old hierarchies, old power dynamics.

But most people are far too busy with their own internal narratives to scrutinise ours.

And even if someone does respond poorly to a question? That says far more about them than it does about you. Curiosity is not a character flaw. Discouraging it is.

I’ve come to believe that one of the most generous things you can do—for yourself and for others—is to ask the question that clears the fog. It sets a tone. It gives permission. It reminds everyone in the room that understanding matters more than appearances.

Getting better, slowly

I won’t pretend this is a lesson I’ve mastered. Even now, there are moments when I hesitate. Old habits have a long shelf life. But I am getting better.

Better at catching myself before the nod. Better at choosing curiosity over pride. Better at recognising that the cost of not asking is usually higher than the cost of speaking up.

And perhaps that’s the point. Growth doesn’t always look like dramatic change. Sometimes it’s just a quiet shift in behaviour—a question asked where once there would have been silence.

A small encouragement

If you’re reading this and recognising yourself in it, consider this a gentle nudge. Ask the question. Especially the one you think you shouldn’t need to ask. Especially the one you suspect others are wondering about too.

You don’t lose credibility by seeking understanding. You gain it.

After nearly seventy years, I’m still learning that. And that, in itself, feels like a question worth continuing to ask.