Chapter 10: Why We Try Anyway

What We Do Anyway

There’s a particular kind of decision I make over and over again, even though it rarely makes sense on paper. I answer an email that probably won’t lead anywhere. I apply for something I’m unlikely to get. I show up to a gathering when I already feel tired, unsure I’ll enjoy myself. I offer help when I don’t know if it will matter, or if it will even be noticed. If I were strict about odds, I’d stop doing these things. If I were honest about probabilities alone, I’d conserve my energy, narrow my efforts, wait for better guarantees. But I don’t. And neither do most people I know. We live as if something besides likelihood is at work.

I think about this most clearly when someone asks for help. It’s rarely convenient. It often interrupts something else. There’s no certainty the help will change the outcome in any meaningful way. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it barely registers. And yet, I usually say yes. Not every time. I have limits. But often enough that it’s become part of who I am. If I pause and ask myself why, the answer is never, “Because this will definitely succeed.” It’s usually closer to, “Because it feels like the right thing to do,” or, “Because I’d want someone to do the same for me,” or simply, “Because not doing it would feel worse.” The value isn’t in the result alone. It’s in the act. I used to feel slightly foolish about this. As if I were being inefficient with my care. As if adulthood required better optimization. But over time, I’ve come to see these choices differently. They’re not irrational. They’re just measured on a different scale.

Expected Value, in the simplest sense, isn’t only about how likely something is to work. It’s about what’s at stake if it does—and what it costs if you never try. Some things are worth doing even when they fail. Some actions carry meaning regardless of outcome. This realization didn’t arrive all at once. It grew slowly, through repetition.

In mathematics, Expected Value is a simple calculation: You take the probability of an outcome and multiply it by the value of that outcome. Usually, we use this for money. If you have a 10% chance of winning $100, the "Expected Value" of that bet is $10. If the ticket costs $5, it’s a "positive EV" bet. You should take it every time, even if you lose the first nine times.

But in life, we often get the math wrong because we focus entirely on the Probability (which is low) and ignore the Value (which is infinite).

I think of the times I reached out to someone I hadn’t spoken to in years. Most of those messages led nowhere. Polite replies. Brief updates. Then silence again. But once in a while, something opened. A real conversation. A renewed friendship. A sense of continuity I didn’t know I needed. If I only counted successes, the effort wouldn’t justify itself. But that’s not the right accounting. The cost of sending a message was small. The potential upside—connection, repair, warmth—was large. Even when nothing came of it, I didn’t regret trying. And when something did come of it, it mattered.

When I reached out to that friend I hadn't spoken to in years, the Probability of a life-changing reconnection was maybe 5%. On paper, that looks like a bad bet. But if the Value of that reconnection is "High" (a restored friendship, a sense of belonging), the Expected Value remains positive even if the odds are slim.

This is how I’ve started to understand many of my better decisions. Not as bets I expected to win, but as ones that were worth placing. The same is true of creative work. Most of what I write never goes anywhere. It doesn’t find an audience. It doesn’t get polished. It doesn’t justify the time spent on it, if judged strictly by results. But writing changes me, even when no one reads it. It sharpens my attention. It gives shape to my thinking. It helps me notice what I would otherwise overlook. The value accumulates internally. I didn’t understand this early on. I was outcome-focused. Publication. Recognition. Clear markers of success. Now, those things still matter—but they’re not the whole story. I’ve learned to respect the quieter returns.

The same applies to showing up. Showing up to meetings where I feel out of place. Showing up to conversations I’d rather avoid. Showing up for people when I’m not sure I have the right words. Most of these moments don’t produce anything dramatic. They don’t resolve neatly. They don’t get rewarded. But they add something subtle to the shape of a life. A reputation for reliability. A habit of engagement. A sense that I’m participating rather than waiting. That last part matters more than I used to think.

For a long time, I waited. I waited for confidence before acting. For clarity before choosing. For certainty before committing. I told myself this was prudence. Often, it was fear dressed up as logic. Waiting feels safe. It protects you from embarrassment, from rejection, from wasted effort. But it also carries a cost. A quiet one, easy to ignore. Opportunities pass. Muscles weaken. Courage atrophies. The longer you wait for guarantees, the smaller your world becomes.

This isn’t something anyone told me directly. I noticed it in hindsight. In paths not taken because I wanted better odds. In relationships that faded because I hesitated too long. In chances I declined because the outcome wasn’t assured. None of these decisions were wrong in isolation. But together, they formed a pattern. I was living defensively.

Expected value, as it turns out, isn’t about optimism. It’s about acknowledging that uncertainty is the price of entry. You don’t get to choose certainty or engagement. You choose engagement with uncertainty, or disengagement disguised as caution.

I see this now in small moral dilemmas. Do I speak up when it might make things awkward? Do I offer kindness when it might not be returned? Do I try when the odds aren’t in my favor? There’s no formula that answers these questions cleanly. But there is a posture. A willingness to act without guarantees. A willingness to accept that some value is realized only in the trying.

I think of a friend who volunteers regularly. Not for recognition. Not because it fixes everything. But because, as they once said, “It keeps me from becoming someone I don’t want to be.” That sentence stayed with me. It reframed the question entirely. The action wasn’t about success rates. It was about identity. Who do you become by choosing this? That’s a kind of expected value we don’t talk about much. Every choice nudges us in a direction. Reinforces a habit. Confirms a self-concept. When I choose generosity, even imperfectly, I strengthen my capacity for it. When I choose withdrawal, I do the same. Neither choice is permanent. But repetition matters. Over time, these choices compound—not into certainty, but into character. I don’t mean this in a moralizing way. There’s no scoreboard. No final tally. Just a gradual shaping. I’ve come to believe that living well under uncertainty means accepting this shaping without demanding guarantees. It means doing some things simply because they align with how you want to move through the world. Helping, even when it doesn’t solve everything. Trying, even when you might fail. Showing up, even when the room feels cold. Not because you expect a payoff, but because the alternative feels like shrinking. Probability, in this sense, becomes a form of humility. It reminds me that I don’t control outcomes. That I can’t predict what will matter later. That much of what feels decisive now will blur with time. This humility is oddly comforting. It releases me from the burden of perfect strategy. It allows me to act with care instead of calculation. I still think about odds. I still weigh risks. I still choose restraint sometimes. But I no longer wait for certainty before living. I accept that uncertainty is not a flaw in the system. It is the system.

Once I stopped fighting that, something loosened. I became less obsessed with being right. Less anxious about missing the optimal path. More willing to take part in what was already happening. This doesn’t make life easier in any obvious way. But it makes it more inhabitable. I move through days with a little more patience. A little more irony. A little less urgency to interpret everything immediately. When something doesn’t work out, I don’t always ask what it meant. Sometimes I let it just be what it was. When something does work out, I enjoy it without assuming it’s permanent.

This balance—between effort and release—feels like the quiet heart of the whole thing. Probability doesn’t offer reassurance. It offers perspective. It tells me I’m not uniquely unlucky or uniquely blessed. That randomness touches everyone. That patterns emerge slowly, unevenly, imperfectly. And within that, I still get to choose how I act. That’s the part that matters most. Not the forecast. Not the guarantee. But the decision to participate anyway.

To keep moving through the space—crowded, uncertain, occasionally kind—with care.

To accept that some actions are worth taking even when they fail. That some value lies not in winning, but in staying engaged.

To live, not as someone waiting for the odds to improve, but as someone willing to place small, thoughtful bets on decency, curiosity, and connection.

There is no final equation. No moment where uncertainty dissolves. There is only this: a life made of attempts. And that, I’ve come to believe, is enough. Not because it’s guaranteed to succeed. But because it’s how we remain human while the outcomes remain unknown.