Why I don't say "everything happens for a reason"
Embracing the limits of human understanding
"Why did this happen to me, doc?"
My patient—a 34-year-old mother of twin toddlers, recently diagnosed with advanced breast cancer—looked at me with desperation.
I didn’t have an answer. I never do. Because in that moment, there is no explanation that can make sense of the unthinkable.
🌀 The Seductive Appeal of Having Reasons
When we face tragedy, loss, or senseless suffering, it’s only human to search for meaning. We long for a reason—to feel some sense of control. If everything happens for a reason, then maybe the universe is orderly. Predictable. Fair. And if we just lived right—if we were good enough, careful enough, deserving enough—maybe we could avoid the worst.
This belief gives us comfort. Until it doesn’t.
🏥 Where It Falls Apart
In oncology, “everything happens for a reason” doesn’t just fall short—it breaks.
What’s the reason a two-year-old develops leukemia? Why does a vibrant 28-year-old get brain cancer three months before her wedding? Why do some patients respond to treatment while others with the same diagnosis do not?
I’ve sat with hundreds of patients and families grappling with these questions. And I’ve learned that when we reach for this phrase, we’re not offering wisdom—we’re offering a form of spiritual bypassing. One that can deepen the wound rather than heal it.
It suggests suffering serves a purpose. That if someone just looked hard enough, they’d find the lesson or silver lining that justifies their pain.
But the truth is: some suffering has no silver lining. Some losses can’t be reframed. Some pain just is.
👩👧👦 The Motherhood Mirror
Parenting has made this phrase even more unworkable.
My children constantly ask why. Why is that person sleeping on the street? Why are some kids hungry? Why is life unfair?
As much as I want to be the wise, all-knowing parent, I tell them the truth: some things we will never understand. Our perspective is limited. And that’s a part of this human experience.
✨ What I Say Now
These days, when patients ask, “Why me?” or “Why now?” I don’t reach for easy answers.
I say: “We cannot understand why things happen the way they do. Our perspective is too limited to see the whole picture.”
That’s not giving up. It’s giving permission—to not know, to be confused, to be angry at the randomness of it all.
And something beautiful happens when I say this. Shoulders soften. Breathing deepens. The pressure to make sense of the senseless lifts. And patients can begin to focus on what they can control: how they respond, who they become, what they choose to do with their time.
🌱 The Gift of Limited Understanding
Acknowledging our limited perspective isn’t defeat—it’s humility. A reminder that we are human beings having a human experience—we do not have access to some cosmic blueprint.
This shift has transformed how I practice medicine. I no longer find myself asking why cancer happens. I focus on what we do now that it’s here.
It’s also changed how I parent. When my children face disappointment or pain, I try not to rush to offer lessons or platitudes. I sit with them in the unreasonableness of it all. I try to validate their frustration, to hold space for their feelings without trying to fix them.
👶 Teaching Our Children to Live with Mystery
Perhaps one of the greatest gifts we can give our children is permission to not understand everything. To sit with questions that have no clear answers. To make peace with mystery.
When life gets confusing, I tell them: “I don’t know why this happened. And it doesn’t make sense. And that’s just how life as human is.”
It’s a powerful shift—from needing reasons to choosing responses. From finding meaning in our circumstances to creating meaning through them.
🍋 A Lemon Tree Reflection
Life is like the weather—beautiful at times, devastating at others, and often unpredictable.
We can’t control the weather. But we can learn to dance in the rain, seek shelter in storms, and bask in the sun when it shines.
In both medicine and motherhood, I’ve learned that “I don’t know why” can open space for something far more honest:
“But I’m here with you while we just focus on taking the next step.”
And sometimes, that’s enough.
This Week’s Mindful Invitation
Notice when you feel the urge to find reasons for difficult things. Can you sit with the not-knowing instead? What happens when you do?