Dangerous Questions

The Dangerous Questions We Ask

I ask Happy if she’s truly happy in our marriage while praying she won’t tell me the truth that might shatter the carefully constructed peace we’ve built over fifteen years.

The question hangs in the evening air between us like a loaded gun—aimed at certainties I’m not ready to lose, truths I’m not prepared to handle. Part of me genuinely wants to know, but a larger part hopes she’ll give me the comfortable lie that lets me sleep tonight instead of the honest answer that might keep me awake for months.

We ask dangerous questions because something in us craves the drama of potential devastation, the thrill of standing at the edge of emotional cliffs we’re not actually brave enough to jump from. The “Do you ever think about leaving?” that we pose to spouses. The “What do you really think of my writing?” that we ask friends whose opinions could destroy our creative confidence. The “Am I going to be okay?” that we whisper to Allah while fearing He might answer with divine silence.

Perhaps most perversely, we ask questions we don’t want answered because the asking itself provides temporary relief from not knowing, even when the not-knowing might be protecting us from unbearable knowledge. The uncertainty feels like progress toward truth, but sometimes uncertainty is the kindest truth available.

I remember asking my mother, during her final illness, whether she was afraid of dying. The question erupted from genuine curiosity mixed with genuine terror—I needed to know her state of mind, but I desperately didn’t want to hear her say yes. Her eyes met mine with the particular sadness that comes from recognizing a question that serves the questioner more than the questioned.

The most dangerous questions we ask ourselves: “What if I’ve wasted my life?” “What if my children would be better off without me?” “What if there’s no point to any of this?” These inquiries surface during 3 AM moments when our psychological defenses have lowered, when the comfortable stories we tell ourselves about meaning and purpose feel tissue-thin.

Sometimes we ask questions we don’t want answered because we’re hoping the other person will refuse to answer them, will recognize the question as cry for reassurance rather than request for information. The wife who asks her husband if he finds other women attractive isn’t seeking demographic data about his attractions—she’s asking him to tell her she’s enough.

Tonight I practice asking only the questions I’m prepared to have answered, understanding that curiosity without courage serves neither truth nor peace, that some inquiries require emotional preparation before they deserve honest responses.