Why Math Feels Safer Than Reality: Comfort by Calculation

By Lucas Quiceno

On an especially typical day in school, I sit struggling to find the answer to a math problem given to me barely an hour earlier. The problem involved Newton’s Law of Cooling; I was tasked with calculating the time of death of a made-up figure in an experimental scenario. I hadn’t known what this law actually meant, or how to manipulate it, only the formula. So, I memorized it. My pen began to write as if by nature, before my confidence could catch up. After an entire page was filled with dead-ends, scribbles, and several lines of work, I finally reached an answer. I calculated an initial temperature of approximately 104 degrees Fahrenheit and was able to estimate the time of death to be just before 11:40 AM. Underneath my struggles, there was relief. Not because I knew I’d figure it out, but because I knew there was an answer. There was always an answer.

In math, solutions are inevitable. Behind each equation and every step, we know that our work leads to an ultimate conclusion, an answer that cures our perplexity. Reality doesn’t make the same promise, or any at all for that matter.

After solving the problem, I was satisfied. Not just pleased and relieved, but genuinely excited with myself at the fact that I was able to sit with a problem for hours and come to a conclusion on my own. I felt goosebumps course through my skin at the pure adrenaline that flooded my bloodstream after the resolution. Sitting through frustration never felt like a punishment, but more like a lesson. After each problem, I knew I’d learn something or decide an answer, and so math itself began to feel safe.

This feeling stuck with me for a while, and I opened myself up to opportunities to do even more math work. I’d find myself doing the homework for peers or tutoring friends on a topic I felt comfortable with. It felt routine. It felt peaceful.

I began to notice this strength faded in instances where guaranteed answers weren’t a promise. In classes like English, I struggled to analyze texts and the emotions of characters not because I lacked empathy or interpersonal skills, but because there was far too much uncertainty. The saying “open to interpretation” didn’t sit right with me. It felt as if I was a little bit too free, and that I’d benefit from slight restrictions or boundaries that keep me in the box rather than granting me total autonomy. Math equations had a solution, reality had many.

This solvability is precisely what comforts us, specifically, me. Many dislike math, but I find it easy to manage since it provides concrete answers. The field relies entirely on the black and white spectrum, including little to no gray areas. You either get the answer, or you don’t. In some cases, there are multiple methods to solve different problems, but each approach eventually leads to the same outcome. This part of problem solving fosters the comfort that I feel when working on tedious problems.

Based purely on logic, math avoids ambiguity. And the reassurance that a solution will always exist, prevents chaos and establishes tranquility in an overwhelming world of emotions and unpredictability.

Real life is the polar opposite of the comforting world of mathematics. It doesn’t rely on nearly as many underlying foundations or hard facts. Compared to calculation, life is a world of freedom and uncertainty. While problems on paper always have an x value to solve for, reality presents challenges in ways that answers can’t definitively be concluded. Sometimes, the answer itself isn’t the conclusion; it’s the starting point.

Take the future, for example; Oftentimes, people spend their whole lives trying to prepare for the future, or a life-changing phenomenon like graduating High School. Students search for what college to attend, how to achieve perfect grades, and a fulfilling purpose all within their childhood. The answer they yearned for all throughout their time in the education system is merely the beginning of a new chapter in their lives. They treat each factor going into their college application as variables in some made up formula for success only to find that a solution is incalculable. The answer can’t be definitively decided because there isn’t an answer.

If math equations always end in the same solution each time they’re solved, then the real world is a problem consisting of variables and constants that shift every single day, like a puzzle that rearranges its own algorithm. No matter how black-and-white math appears, life only exists within the very gray plane that its counterpart directly rejects. When things like relationships and identity are thrown into the equation, logic and calculation itself collapses. Feelings and emotions can’t be navigated with nearly as much precision as numbers can. While numbers are universally accepted values, emotions are one of the most enigmatic aspects of human life. Emotions don’t come from a specific algorithm or logical chain, they spur from reactions to the spontaneity of reality.

The idea that ambiguity is something I am personally rejecting, however, is a misconception. While I may have presented ideas in a fashion that suggests a dislike towards uncertainty and an unequivocal preference for decisiveness, I find myself unexpectedly drawn to mystery.

I used to only enjoy math purely because of the concrete answers, but that is exactly what catalyzed my interest in other, contradicting fields. I’m especially interested in areas like creative and fictional writing and quantum mechanics.

Quantum mechanics is a direct rejection of the ideas math stands to offer. Universal formulas may represent the laws of physics and the way the world works, but on a quantum scale, mathematical reasoning collapses and outcomes become almost entirely probabilistic. Rather than relying on a single, predictable solution for quantum concerns, math breaks down to uncertainty.

In fictional writing, the comforting solvability of problems completely vanishes. I’m forced to create a world and characters not bound by the rules of reality, and especially not by the domains of mathematical realism.

The math-focused part of my brain symbolizes my craving for certainty and concrete solutions, but the rest of my brain remains as unmapped territory for creativity to thrive. Together, these could bring equilibrium. I might’ve preferred certainty in the past, but maybe that very preference is what led me to find purpose in ambiguity, in the things that can’t be answered so easily. The “gray” part of the spectrum that reality lies in is no longer a hindering blend of colors, but a “sweet spot” where creativity prospers. Like a probability cloud in an electron, where its exact location is unknown but its existence is irrefutable.

I used to think I preferred environments where answers were a guarantee. But I continuously find myself exploring areas in which none are promised, like fiction and quantum physics, and those areas aren’t nearly as chaotic as I’d envisioned. Safety in certainty is still my anchor, but I’m becoming more comfortable with ambiguity. I’m captivated by systems that provide clarity and certainty, but even more by the moments where that certainty fails.