Not too long ago, in my History of Modern Europe class, I posed a question to my professor about a difference between two similar points in time. I won’t go into the full details of that question, lest I end up with less of an article and more of a report of modernism, but prior to his answering, another student raised her hand and suggested that my question was wrong to begin with, because the two points in time, she claimed, were actually the same. Of course, I started feeling a bit shy and stupid – especially after seeing that student’s friend snickering with her, how lovely – and the professor gave his two cents until, before we knew it, class was over.

I’m sure that we’ve all been there before – suddenly embarrassed because of something we didn’t know, while feeling that if we had any decency to call ourselves rational beings, then we probably should have known. Or maybe we regret saying anything at all. Perhaps I am just a little sensitive to my own little mistakes and misunderstandings, but if I feel this way, I’m probably not alone in feeling this way either.

To my fellow peers who may start to feel alienated by the small gaps in their knowledge, I would like to share with you this thought:

We’re still young. Many of us are in college. And we are here because we don't know everything. And that is perfectly fine.

Hard to believe, yes. But our roles as students are essentially defined by learning new things from people who might know more than us: professors, other students, maybe our friends.

Now let's talk about why this role is such a good thing, and why, at least in my opinion, it’s sometimes better to accept that we don't know everything than to believe that we know enough or know better than everyone else – which, I admit, can feel so hard sometimes. I could bring up a few reasons why accepting our roles as students can be pretty great, other than having an excuse to buy lots of cute stationery. But the reason I am writing this article is that I believe admitting our own ignorance to ourselves opens us up to a greater curiosity. When we are aware of how little we actually know, I find that it makes us more willing to either listen to information that we hadn't known before or to hear thoughts that come from different perspectives from our own. It keeps us from a particular amount of certainty that shuts our thoughts and opinions from any sort of flexibility.

Why is this important? Well, let's consider a few hypotheticals, shall we?

We love our friends and family. But for sure, there are certain topics that always start an argument – like, say, the existence of Global Climate Change or what have you. You bring up the drought in California, the current size of the ice caps, and statistics that show us that every year for the past few years has been the hottest year the world has ever had. Then, that one uncle, who you know means well but who can still frustrate you to no end, is so completely sure that Global Climate Change doesn't exist, that it was all a scheme to help Al Gore become president to no avail, and that all of these changes are natural. (Did your skin just crawl or was it just me?)

Or perhaps you are sitting in a class whose topic you are already pretty familiar with, but you have to take it anyway for a prerequisite. One day, you notice that as the professor is giving their lecture, there’s an error in their facts. Like, say, the year they claim the Industrial Revolution took off is short a few decades. They correct themselves the next class and apologize, but you, who wasn’t a big fan of that professor’s teaching methods, have already resigned yourself to simply not pay attention to them anymore.

Unless that uncle just doesn’t care about reason and evidence very much, one should think: what puts him in a position to say that he understands this urgent worldly phenomenon more than you, who has been studying it in almost every science class you have taken since middle school? But at the same time, consider: how much of a position are you in to suggest that you know more about Modern Europe than a person with a Ph.D. in History?

This is not to say that people shouldn’t have strong opinions and beliefs – especially if they feel like they have sufficient reason to believe them – but what I am urging is that we try not to close ourselves to other reasons, other thoughts, and other evidence that might just provide us the means to learn something new – like the reality of climate change, or literally anything else about history. I believe that our generation is smart enough to know that these things lead to understanding, so why should we limit the reasons, thoughts and evidence that we take in?

It’s perfectly fine that we don’t know everything. When we accept that, perhaps we can start to feel less embarrassed about our mistakes, and instead take advantage of the lessons those mistakes provide us.

And as we age, hopefully, we never forget our roles as students.

Better that than to be like your conspiracy theorist uncle.