Maybe So, Maybe Not
There's an ancient parable that might change how you see your worst day—and your best one. It certainly did for me. It’s about a farmer who owned a single horse that was his most prized possession and the foundation of his livelihood. One morning, he woke to find his horse had broken free and vanished into the wilderness.
His neighbors rushed over, shaking their heads. "What terrible luck!" they exclaimed. "How will you work your fields? This is a disaster!"
The farmer leaned on his fence post, quiet for a moment, and replied with four words: "Maybe so, maybe not."
The following week, the missing horse returned with seven magnificent wild stallions in tow. The neighbors gasped. "What incredible fortune!" they cheered. "You're rich! This is wonderful news!"
The farmer smiled faintly. "Maybe so, maybe not."
Days later, while taming one of the stallions, the farmer's son was thrown violently to the ground, his leg breaking with a loud crack. Again, the neighbors gathered. “How awful! Your poor son! And right in planting season!”
The farmer said it again: “Maybe so, maybe not.”
Soon after, war swept through the land. Soldiers conscripted every able-bodied boy in the village. But when they reached the farmer’s house, they saw the son’s broken leg and moved on.
The neighbors wept as their own sons were taken. Through their tears, they whispered: “How lucky you are.”
And the farmer simply nodded: “Maybe so, maybe not.”
You may be living your own lost horse moment right now. A door slammed shut. A letdown. A love you thought would last forever has walked away.
Or maybe you’re in your seven horses season. The promotion, the windfall, the applause.
Here’s what the farmer knew: whatever moment you’re in, it’s not the end of your story.
That rejection you think defines you? It may be the redirect that saves you. That heartbreak you think will undo you? It may be clearing the way for the love of your life. That failure you keep replaying? It may become the soil of your greatest triumph.
And yes, even the success you’re savoring—hold it lightly. Not because it will vanish, but because it’s just one chapter in a much bigger book you’re still writing.
The farmer’s wisdom wasn’t detachment. It was perspective. He understood that life’s plot twists are rarely final. They’re turning points.
When you’re in the valley, whisper it to yourself: “This is not where my story ends.”
When you’re on the mountain, breathe it in: there are more peaks ahead.
So today, whatever chapter you’re living, carry his words with you:
Maybe so.
Maybe not.
My story is still unfolding.
Now pick up the pen and write the next page.