Yet

Our group was spending about a month on a cross-cultural immersion trip in the Republic of Georgia. We tried new foods, visited cultural landmarks, learned about Georgia's history, and, somewhere along the way, strangers became friends.

One of those new friends was a delightful Georgian named Malkhaz.

Picture a man with white hair and a long white beard. Imagine infectious laughter. Sense what it feels like to be in the presence of someone who is very wise. That was Malkhaz. Being around him always felt like we were one moment away from something worth remembering.

One afternoon, we loaded into vans and drove to a farmhouse tucked into the rural hills of Georgia. We were going to spend the night there before hiking Trinity Mountain the next day.

The farmhouse was simple. There was no running water. No electricity. Nothing flashy or polished. It was back to basics in every sense of the word.

Behind the house, a long wooden table sat on the patio. We gathered there for dinner as the sun quickly faded. We relied on candlelight and flashlights as our only source of light. The table overflowed with incredible food, countless bottles of wine, and stories—so many stories. Georgians and Americans breaking bread together, laughing and listening. It was a moment I wanted to savor.

And then, in the middle of it all, Malkhaz turned to a college student sitting next to him.

“Peder,” he asked, “do you know what the most important word in the English language is?”

The table went quiet. Forks paused in mid-air. Conversations stopped. We all waited to hear the answer to this question.

Malkhaz smiled, nodded, and finally said, “Yet.”

That was it. No explanation. No TED Talk. Just one word.

And then, as if nothing extraordinary had happened, the table slowly came back to life. I don’t know if he said more to Peder, but I remember sitting there thinking, “I want to remember this moment.” I knew something special had happened, but I didn’t fully understand the significance, well, not yet.

I’ve recently noticed–that in this season of life–I’m holding onto the word yet in so many ways.

My book hasn’t been published yet.
The second company I am launching hasn’t been legally filed yet.
My SWAG store isn’t open yet.

At first, living with those statements felt heavy. As a leader, I’m used to measuring progress by what’s finished, launched, or crossed off a to-do list. This list felt like evidence that I was falling behind.

But the more I sit with the word yet, the more I realize how much compassion it holds.

Yet lets me honor where I am without letting this place in time define where I’ll always be. Yet softens the urge to judge myself too quickly or measure my life against someone else’s timeline. Yet feels like a door is propped open. Yet reminds me that growth is still happening, even when I can’t prove it. As the leader of my life, this matters.

I’m not there yet. I don’t fully understand this yet. I’m not done yet. But I am learning, I am growing, and I am still becoming.

We live in a world that rewards speed. Decisions. Action. Movement. Certainty. But sometimes wisdom simply says, “not yet.”

For almost a year now, a big decision has been looming in my life. Every time I’ve returned to face it, I’ve heard a small voice inside me saying, “Not yet.”

For months, that response was frustrating to me. It felt uncomfortable, like I was being lazy or indecisive. I worried that waiting meant I was failing. But over time, I’ve started to understand that not yet isn’t always avoidance. Sometimes it’s the discernment that only comes from paying attention to my life. It’s a conscious decision to trust the timing rather than force it.

We often think leadership requires us to always be in motion. But sometimes a healthy approach to leadership is to embrace timely, intentional restraint. Leadership may need us to say, “We aren’t ready to move on this yet,” even when everyone around us expects an immediate course of action.

If you’re leading people, maybe the invitation is to ask:

Where in my leadership am I being asked to wait?
What decision needs more discernment before I take action?
Who on my team might be living in their own yet season?

Sometimes the most important thing we can say—to ourselves and to others—is not yet.

I’m learning that unfinished often means I am in the middle of the story. It means growth is still happening. It means there is more ahead. It means I can still craft a good ending. It just means… yet.