A few weeks ago, I was reading an article about a Japanese mission to one of Mars’ moons. Scientists hope that the samples collected there will help answer questions about how our solar system was formed and evolved.

The mission itself is fascinating. I love the idea that something collected millions of kilometres away might help us understand where we come from.

What got me stuck, however, is the timeline.

The samples are expected back on Earth in 2031.

That already felt very far away.

Then I realised that 2031 isn’t when we get the answer.

2031 is when the samples get back to Earth.

That’s when scientists can start analysing them. That’s when they get to test theories, challenge assumptions and try to figure out what those samples are actually telling us.

And I remember thinking:

“Wait. You’re telling me we have to get to 2031 before people can even start figuring this out?”

And the annoying thing is that I know this version of myself.

Give me an interesting question and my patience immediately starts negotiating an early exit.

The same thing happens at work.

People tell me all the time that I work ridiculously fast. It always sounds a little strange when they say it because, from my side of the table, it never feels like speed. Most of the time, it feels like I’m following a question and trying to get to the answer before that question has already generated three new ones.

So when somebody asks for a presentation, I immediately want to know what decision they’re actually trying to make. A request for communication support can turn into a conversation about trust, and what gets called resistance to change can have much more to do with uncertainty, conflicting priorities or a disagreement nobody has quite found the words for yet. I love that moment when you start with one question and somehow end up somewhere much more interesting.

But apparently, my curiosity isn’t particularly good at sticking to working hours either.

My dad spent a large part of my childhood watching science fiction. At the time, I really didn’t understand the appeal. I thought spaceships, distant planets and endless episodes about unexplored galaxies were all a bit silly.

Somewhere in my twenties, I started seeing the appeal. The stories were fun, but it was the questions behind them that really pulled me in. Questions about things we still don’t understand.

Does the universe end somewhere?

And if it does, what’s on the other side?

If it doesn’t end, how does that make any sense at all?

Will humanity ever understand how all of this works?

There’s a real possibility that some future generation will get answers to questions I’ve spent years wondering about, and that annoys me a bit because I just really want to know as well.

What’s funny is that, for someone who likes answers this much, I’ve spent a surprising amount of my life stepping into things without having them.

When I moved to Sweden, I had no idea where that experience would eventually lead.

When I accepted new roles, I couldn’t possibly predict which projects, people or opportunities would follow.

Even now, people regularly ask me what comes next after IKEA, which is a perfectly reasonable question.

I’d quite like to know too.

There are conversations I’m enjoying, opportunities that sound interesting and a few directions that make me curious. What there isn’t, is a clear answer.

And yet, if I look at the things that ended up mattering most, they all seem to have started exactly there.

Not with being certain of something.

With being curious.

And for the record, I still think 2031 is far too late. I still want to know how the universe works. I still want to know what’s on the other side if there is an other side. And I still wouldn’t mind knowing what comes next.

But if experience has taught me anything, it’s that the answers rarely arrive when I’d like them to.

The questions do.

And somehow, they keep turning out to be enough to take the next step anyway.