Uncertainty is part of being human, so how can we learn to live with it?

My father was an enthusiastic traveller, but as he got older he increasingly suffered from what he called “travel fever”, a vivid term for the acute anxiety felt before a journey, essentially due to uncertainty about all the things that could go wrong. Sadly, this eventually stopped him from going on holiday. Then I, too, started to suffer similar apprehension, so I consulted a psychotherapist. She recommended a small piece of cognitive behavioural therapy, which involved acknowledging the mental and physical symptoms of anxiety, but telling myself that these were essentially indistinguishable from feelings of excitement about the prospect of a journey. This reframing of my feelings has been reasonably effective – it’s one way of dealing with uncertainty.

It’s not just the uncertainty of travel that we all have to face. None of us knows what is going to happen, or what is currently going on outside our immediate knowledge, or the vast majority of what has happened in the past. Uncertainty has been called the “conscious awareness of ignorance”, and there is a lot we are ignorant about.

We all have to live with this uncertainty and, as a statistician, it’s been my job to try to analyse data and assess some of the risks we face. But some deal with uncertainty with more equanimity than others. Psychological studies, as well our own experience, reveal a wide variation in people’s responses, including those that are cognitive (how we think), emotional (how we feel) and behavioural (what we do). For example, when faced with uncertainty, do you deny it or acknowledge it, does it make you fearful or courageous, do you try to avoid it or approach it? Of course, your response may depend on the context, just as an individual’s appetite for risk-taking can vary across different areas of their lives. I have known people who seemed to take huge physical risks, yet were very cautious with money.

Numerous scales have been developed to measure how well people can deal with uncertainty, based on responses to statements ranging from “Unforeseen events upset me greatly” to “When it’s time to act, uncertainty paralyses me”. Those who score highly, and find it difficult to tolerate uncertainty, may also be at increased risk of clinically significant anxiety and depression.

But my own experience shows that attitudes can change. I used to plan holidays in meticulous and obsessive detail, whereas my partner would only open a guidebook when she was on the plane. We’ve come to a sort of compromise – earlier this year we travelled for a month in India and I only booked the first two nights’ accommodation in advance (although quietly made sure that we had wildlife permits arranged). I am a bit smug about overcoming my anxiety and allowing myself to be more spontaneous – although I still devour guidebooks before setting off.

Anticipating an adventure is not the only situation where people might actually desire uncertainty. Very few people want to know what they will get for Christmas, or how a recorded football match will end, or go straight to the final episode of a whodunnit series. I often ask audiences when I give talks, “Would you want to know today when you will die?”, and only about one in 20 says they would. They always say they would like to make plans. Most of us just prefer not to know, even if we could.

Since being uncertain is part of being human, can we learn to live with it? Nobel prize-winning physicist Richard Feynman claimed, “I’m smart enough to know I’m dumb”, and was comfortable with not fully understanding things, saying: “I can live with doubt, uncertainty and not knowing.” This sets a fine example for how to deal with the inevitable ignorance in our lives.

But why are we uncertain? Why can’t we say exactly what is going to happen? In writing my latest book, The Art of Uncertainty, I’ve had to confront this rather tricky question. Is it just because the mechanics of the world are so massively complex and chaotic that the future just cannot be predicted? Or is there some additional randomness, say due to the influence of sub-atomic quantum effects, a mysterious world where everything is probability. What about the effect of people’s free will (whatever that is)?

This is not just a matter for rational analysis, since it is inevitable that we have feelings about why things happen. Do you tend to believe in some inexorable fate or destiny, possibly even God’s will? Or do you feel that events are largely the result of capricious chance, perhaps personified as the Goddess Fortuna? Or, do things happen because people do good or bad things – in which case, why do they do them?

This is all very personal and way beyond my philosophical pay grade. Fortunately, I don’t need to have a firm opinion, since, whatever the reason for the uncertainty, in the end we have to admit we are ignorant of so much and just learn to live with it.

I used to be the (one and only) Professor for the Public Understanding of Risk, and I frequently was asked how I dealt with risks in my own life. Did I carefully calculate the potential harms and benefits of everything? This sort of mathematical approach might be known as “risk as analysis”, but we cannot completely separate this from “risk as feeling” – our individual gut reactions about our behaviour. For example, I know exercise is good for me and I can tell you the estimated increase in life-expectancy associated with the first 20 minutes of daily moderate activity (two years, since you ask). But I mainly keep running, rowing, cycling and walking, because I enjoy it and it makes me feel good. If I really disliked it, all the statistics in the world wouldn’t get the trainers on me. And it’s not just the frightening stats that keeps me off motorbikes, but because I am simply frightened.

The problem with “risk as analysis” is that it assumes we can put everything into numbers. We increasingly see messages such as “No alcohol is safe”, even though there is no strong evidence for any overall harm (or benefit) from moderate alcohol consumption, say at or below the current UK guidelines. But even if there were some small harm, this does not necessarily mean we shouldn’t drink. There is no safe level of driving, but we don’t recommend everyone stay at home. Indeed, there is no safe level of living, but nobody recommends abstention. There is a trade-off for everything, and we may engage in slightly risky activities because we simply enjoy them. Perhaps girls and boys just want to have fun, and older people especially deserve it.

Think of the things you do just for fun; in my case, I like riding in an open-topped bus, plunging into a cold sea, racing my dog, walking on wild cliffs, cycling downhill, dancing to old rock music in the kitchen, laughing with friends over a drink or playing idiotic and shouty games with family. But none of this can be put into an equation. Maybe we need a new unit of measurement and, as a tentative first suggestion, I propose the “whoosh” – the amount of fun had from landing a snowball on a willing companion. Though I don’t think it will catch on.

We can have all the fun we like, but we can be certain of one thing – it will, at some point, come to an end. I can use myself as an example. I am 71 and, according to the latest tables for England, the average life expectancy for males my age is another 14 years, taking them to 85, with 27% reaching 90 and 1% celebrating their 100th birthday, getting a message from whoever the monarch is in 2053. But that is just a baseline – I am reasonably fit for my age, don’t smoke and am not (too) overweight, but on the other hand the treatment to suppress my prostate cancer will inevitably fail at some point. So I am bracing myself for some tough times ahead and determined to make the best of things now.

My main inspiration is my spaniel. She lives in the moment, starts each day with bounding enthusiasm, yelps when she gets trodden on and then immediately forgives you, and leaps at the hint of a sausage. She accepts the lack of control in her life, but relishes the uncertainty of walking and sniffing in new places. And when it’s time for her to die, she will curl up and go quietly. Although I get cross when she ignores my cries and rolls in something disgusting, I try to tell myself that her inability to resist just matches my inability to turn down an invitation to speak at a book festival. In fact, I increasingly feel I’m just an upmarket, slightly more evolved version of the dog – my iPhone 16 to her Nokia – but still with the same basic idea. And that’s just fine with me.

The Art of Uncertainty: How to Navigate Chance, Ignorance, Risk and Luck by David Spiegelhalter is published by Penguin at £22. Buy a copy for £19.80 from guardianbookshop.com