I have a complicated relationship with control and uncertainty. As an expat learning my host  country’s different norms and systems, I’m constantly navigating life in the dark. Of course, confronting this kind of uncertainty is part of the deal- and the thrill– of living abroad.

On the other hand, I am nothing if not a list-making, project-managing, plan-producing machine. I’ll go to great lengths to feel a pinch of control over my life. 

This especially held true throughout the pandemic and this past winter as I navigated the ending of a romantic relationship, a predicament often shrouded in uncertainty. 

Obviously, like monthly bills, long queues, and rush hour traffic, uncertainty is a part of life. You gotta deal with it. 

And yet, when facing chronic uncertainty, it is invariably, as one dear friend phrased it, “a pain in the ass worse than death. At least with death, there’s certainty.”

Battling this, when I tried project-managing my post-relationship grief, grasping for any speck of certainty, I kept instinctively replaying a pre-pandemic memory that took place in 2019. 

May this tale about an evening boat ride across the Brunei River be a gentle invitation to reframe how we view uncertainty, to trust those guiding us, and to acknowledge that we’re never really stuck, but constantly moving and evolving. In knowing this, we can pay close attention to when something miraculous happens along the way. 

(In short, maybe uncertainty doesn’t have to be such a pain in the ass.)

Date: May 2019
Location: Southeast Asia  

When my plane touched down in Bandar Seri Begawan, the capital city of Brunei, I felt giddy and excited, as this city remained an unchecked box on my bucket list. I also -thanks to food poisoning, a common affliction experienced by many travelers in Southeast – felt nauseous. 

Before coming to Brunei, I roamed for two weeks the culinary hotspots of southern Vietnam, devouring nearly everything in sight. The gurgles in my stomach definitely signaled a digestive malady, but I also know they came from sheer anxiety over my life and its rootless, jobless status. 

A month prior, the teaching program I worked for in Kabul, Afghanistan ended, leaving me crushed, unemployed, and without a plan. I loved that job, especially because of my students. Accepting that gig was also the Hail Mary pass my previous, sedentary life in Kentucky needed. 

Feeling defeated and needing time to process before facing a crumbling job market, I chose – like any nomad- to cure my woes with travel. 

After spending the first two days recovering at my hostel and avoiding the daytime’s oppressive sun, I booked an evening boat tour. My hostel manager explained the guide would take me through Kampong Ayer, a local settlement built on stilts along the Brunei River, then visit the mangrove islands. Less curious about this village on water, my hostel mates declined the nocturnal boat ride, leaving me to face the adventure solo. 

Around half past eight on my last night in Brunei, I met my guide Serati, a stocky, smiling, middle-aged local, at a secluded cement dock by the strip mall behind my hostel. As Serati directed me to sit towards the front of the slender longboat, a tangerine haze from the strip mall’s neon lights cascaded onto the glossy, onyx river. 

Despite the unforgiving heat, I felt relief by adhering to Brunei’s conservative clothing customs and wearing long pants. Several confident mosquitos already laid siege on my bare forearms, along with the night’s salty damp air.

Serati adeptly untied the ropes, pushed us off with his rubber sandaled feet, and revved up the boat’s engine. Slowly we scudded across the murky inlet. Tall, ominous palm trees cloaked in mist lined the embankment.

Around the first bend, Serati advised me to look closely toward the river’s edge where sparkling rubies shimmered on the surface. 

“Crocodiles,” Serati commented nonchalantly. “Their eyes glow red at night.” 

Before I could process that we were casually cruising through their turf, Serati accelerated the boat. He navigated a few more bends, bringing us to Istana Nurul Inman, the Sultan of Brunei’s humble palace. 

Known in English as the “Light of Faith Palace,” the name became more apparent as the massive, opulent golden domes and ivory exterior illuminated the palace grounds and the surrounding water.

As we drifted by, Serati rattled off general facts about the palace’s number of rooms (1,788 by the way) and the cost of construction, all things I’m sure the Sultan would want visitors to ooh and aw at. 

Our journey down the inlet continued but then took an interesting turn. Right as we exited the inlet’s mouth and jetted onto the wider Brunei River, the light from Bandar Seri Begwan faded. A screen of pitch black eclipsed my line of sight, ergo I couldn’t see a meter past our boat, yet we continued cruising at top speeds. 

With my eyesight deprived, the whirring of the engine and the slapping of water against the boat roared in my ears. The damp wind nudged me to clasp my arms tight. 

Dialing back the situation, anxiety-ridden thoughts fireworks-boomed in my head. 

This tiny, inconsequential vessel is carrying me in the dark at high speeds in open water. 

I can’t see where we’re going. 

I don’t even know where we’re going. 

I have no control.  

Why did I come here?

Why am I in Brunei, by myself, without a job, without my family, and without a plan?

What am I going to do next? 

Where is this boat heading? 

Where is my life heading? 

Gripping my seat, I looked back to see if Serati faced the same concerns of visual impairment. 

Nope. He sat upright in the back, commanding the vessel and sporting the same easygoing smile.

I started chuckling at myself, noting how amusing it is that we often sign ourselves up for experiences that teeter on the exciting and anxiety-inducing. 

Clutching that thought, I took a deep breath and surmised: Ok. Go deep. What does this fear signal? That I’m in trouble heading towards danger? 

No, if I felt like my life was actually at risk, I would never have gotten in the boat. I also trusted Serati, who had mentioned earlier volunteering for the local fire department. He wasn’t someone who’d take senseless risks. 

OK. Am I uncomfortable because I’m not in control? 

 Because I’m unsure about what will happen next in my life?

Shit, I thought. Of course, it’s that. 

Remembering that our reptilian brains often house our fears and have a compulsive need to mitigate threats, I asked myself: what if I confronted my fear in this boat by acknowledging it and thanking it? 

After all, it did a great job serving my ancestors out on the savannah fleeing from saber tooth tigers and who knows what else. 

I’m here now because fear in part served its purpose. 

What if a part of me admits that I need and sort of like this fear? That it helps me feel alive. Fear helps me experience a deeper connection with something greater than myself. 

What if I learned to enjoy the stomach-turning unknown twists of not just this boat ride, but of life, knowing they won’t last forever?

Upon acknowledging this, a gentle voice made itself known inside me: You’re right where you’re supposed to be. You can’t get to where you’re heading next without going through this first. Keep moving. 

Praise be to spiritual intuition arriving in simple, palatable forms because they often ring true. I exhaled deeply and continued to breathe. 

As my heart rate slowed to a calm, steady beat, my eyes adjusted to the crescent moon’s silver luster. Ahead in the distance, I could make out a large mass of shadows. Closer up, the shadows morphed into the chain of dense mangrove islands.  

When Serati neared a patch of rocks jetting out from an island, he cut the boat’s engine. He steered us towards a small alcove and then dropped anchor. Small waves lapped against each other, licking the boat’s sides and echoed by the night’s wind. Nestled along the island’s flora, the woodsy scent of damp brush and soil filled my nose. 

Pointing with his hand, Serati instructed me to look towards the island’s forest and wait. Squinting for several minutes, my eyes tried to make sense of the dim shapes made by the negative spaces of shrubs, vines, and trees. 

Eventually, small iridescent orbs appeared in the gray sheen. Glowing in random cadences, a small gathering of fireflies delicately scattered a soft white light in the hazy mist. Unlike the bright, dominating spectacle of light from the palace, their evanescent flickers felt like a precious invitation to pause and lay witness to their magical glow. 

Rocking idly for about fifteen minutes in tranquil silence, Serati and I sat, accepting their invitation and witnessing in tandem the island’s precious secret, its internal nightlife of fireflies. 

This allegory brought a deep sense of comfort. Sure, we need the security of daylight, and we often try to mimic that luminescence by erecting structures like the sultan’s palace. But living only in the light means we deprive ourselves from experiencing a sense of mystery, awe and wonder. Only in the dark could I witness the gentle miracle of nature’s own radiance. 

The following months, I faced similar harrowing moments of uncertainty, not necessarily on a boat in the middle of the Brunei River, but navigating the ruthless job market. Throughout this time, and throughout the pandemic, I replayed this memory, reminding myself to move through the portal of uncertainty as if I were riding in the dark heading towards something wild, illuminating, quiet, sacred and precious. Eventually, I assured myself, I’ll arrive to see the fireflies light up the mangroves.