How many times in our lives do we ask the question “Why?” Why did the person we love leave? Why did illness arrive? Why did war happen? Why me? And perhaps the strangest thing of all is that even when we receive an answer, the question often remains.
If you think about it, I suspect this question has never really been about information. Because if it were only about information, answers like these would be perfectly enough:
“Why did it rain?”
“Because moisture condensed in the atmosphere.”
That’s it. Question answered. Case closed.
But when someone asks, “Why did the person I had feelings for leave?” or “Why did a loved one die?”, “Why did cancer happen to me?”, “Why did I fall in love with this particular person?”, “Why is there war?”, “Why am I suffering?” …and a billion other variations of why, a scientific answer will never be enough.
Let’s imagine that every human “why” contains several layers. I’ll start with the one I return to quite often, sometimes without even realising it. Perhaps the oldest layer of all.
The first layer: survival
The first layer is survival. Yes, let’s wave to the reptilian brain. “Why did the doctor order this particular test?”, “Why haven’t they replied to my message?”, “Why has my child suddenly gone quiet?”, “Why did the expression on their face change?” Our brains are still scanning the world for causes and patterns because there was a time when survival depended on the answer to that question.
The brain did not evolve to make us happy. It did not even evolve to help us discover the truth. Its first task was much simpler: to keep us alive. That is why those ancient systems continue to scan the world around us. In that sense, curiosity is not some luxury reserved for intellectuals. It is an ancient survival tool passed down from our ancestors. The ability to notice change and search for cause and effect genuinely gave us an evolutionary advantage. Only later did it become exploration, science, philosophy… and even art.
The ability to notice change and search for cause and effect genuinely gave us an evolutionary advantage. Only later did it become exploration, science, philosophy… and even art.
The second layer: control
The second layer, I would say, belongs to control. It is remarkable how much this can calm our nervous system. “If I understand the reason, the world feels less chaotic.” Take a child asking, “Why did Mum leave?” If we put the first layer aside and focus only on the second one, control, where does that “why” actually lead us? To a very simple place: uncertainty is often more frightening than any answer. Seriously. Even a bad answer can sometimes be easier to carry than no answer at all.
The third layer: meaning
The third layer is meaning. To me, this is where our humanity truly lives. Because we do not simply want to know the cause. Alright, let’s imagine someone places the exact reason in front of us. Then what? We want to understand what it means. And I think that difference is enormous.
Let’s take a situation where another person has limited you in some way. The specific action does not matter. You ask, “Why?” and there could be countless reasons. Fear. A decision that person made. The realisation that they could no longer cope. Boundaries. Shadows. Demons. A spoon placed on the table the wrong way. Absolutely anything. And actually, none of it is important. Yes, really. It is not important.
So what is important?
Only one thing: What does this mean for me?
And this is where the answers stop living inside the other person. They live inside us. That’s the twist. But that is exactly how it works. Before trying to climb inside someone else’s head (please switch off your amateur mind-reader mode, most people do not fully understand themselves anyway), there comes that damned 180 degree turn back towards yourself. And then the question becomes: what does this mean for you?
The fourth layer: connection
The fourth layer is connection. Because when we do not care about someone, we rarely ask “why”. We shrug our shoulders and move on. But when someone matters, we want to see their inner world. Not to justify them. Not to judge them. But to understand them. At this layer, the question “Why?” often becomes a request: “Show me your world.” Or perhaps: “Let me see what you saw.”
From why to what now
But does the question “Why?” itself have a limit? I think it does. Because there comes a point where it simply stops helping. Even if, in response to your “why”, you were handed a two hundred page treatise explaining motives, fears, decisions, arguments, evidence, scientific studies and everything else imaginable, sooner or later another question would appear. Why was that particular thing stronger? Then another. And another. And another.
Which brings us to an interesting realisation: the question “why” is theoretically endless. Philosophers have argued about this for thousands of years, and personally I find that fascinating to watch. But I suggest we leave that to them and look at a different angle instead. Every reason has its own reason.
And it is exactly here that another question is born. Not “Why?” but “What now?”
People move into that question beautifully. From “Why did they do that?” to “What did this reveal in me?” From “Why was I limited?” to “What do I choose now?” Because, in essence, “why” helps us understand the past. “What now?” helps us understand and accept the present moment and, perhaps, begin creating the future. But that is a conversation for another day.
The artist’s why
Interestingly, as an artist, I live right at the intersection of these two questions. Every painting begins with: “Why does this move me?” and ends with: “What do I want to create from this feeling?” And perhaps that is where silence is born… or understanding… or maybe a life lived in harmony with one’s own nature. Because it is at that moment that the question “why” stops being the only important question. You know, when talking with fellow creatives, I often notice how difficult it is for many of them to write their artist statement. And it is exactly there that perhaps the most frightening “why” appears.
“Why do you create? Why do you paint, write, make, build, compose, create…” (I am fairly certain that every creative reading this is nodding with a slight smile right now, or at least I hope so.)
Because it is frightening to look at yourself as you really are. How many times is that damned blank sheet of paper pushed aside? Or perhaps you simply stare at the blinking cursor on the screen, completely unsure where to begin. Something gets in the way… those little creatures… fears. (They are fascinating creatures, by the way. You could spend years trying to understand them.) But let’s return to the blank page. You can come back to it again and again until one day something inside finally says: “Enough.”
Your statement to yourself. A brave one. And I am not using that word lightly. It is courage. Even the willingness to meet yourself is courage.
Five whys and the beginning of the journey
And so you begin writing an answer to the question “Why?” Perhaps awkwardly. Perhaps anxiously. Perhaps through tears. Perhaps through laughter. Perhaps through all of it at once.
Now, if you happen to be as merciless with yourself as I can sometimes be with myself, let me share a method that helped me. I did not invent it. If memory serves me correctly, it was developed by Sakichi Toyoda sometime in the 1940s. He was deeply interested in causes and root problems. Whenever he wanted to understand something, he would repeatedly ask the same question: “Why?” Five times. Sometimes more. Sometimes less. But he would continue asking “Why?” and searching for the answer behind the previous answer.
And you know what? That is where the journey begins. For some, it becomes a journey towards themselves. For others, a journey towards clarity. And perhaps growing up begins right there. Not when we finally receive every answer, but when we stop waiting for the perfect answer and begin creating our next painting, our next chapter, or our next life.