There’s a familiar objection that comes up whenever someone points to meaning that only becomes clear later.

“You’re telling a story after the fact.”

“You couldn’t have known that at the time.”

“That’s just retroactive interpretation.”

It feels like a reasonable critique. We’re taught to expect causes to precede effects, explanations to precede confidence, and understanding to precede legitimacy. When someone claims that something *felt true* before they could explain it, alarm bells go off. It sounds like mysticism, projection, or wishful thinking.

It feels like backwards causation.

And yet—this experience is so common, and so persistent, that it’s worth slowing down before dismissing it.

Because what’s actually happening in many of these cases isn’t time running backwards. It’s structure revealing itself late.

I recently came across a Scientific American article describing a result in chaos and fractal mathematics that put clean language around this intuition:

[https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/mathematicians-crack-a-fractal-conjecture-on-chaos/]

The key idea is simple, even if the math isn’t. In recursive systems, stable structures often emerge *after* the system has already been operating for a while. Once they emerge, those structures act as constraints on the entire system—past, present, and future—without violating forward time. Nothing travels backward. What changes is what becomes visible.

From the inside, this can feel uncanny.

You run the system. Things happen locally. Choices are made. Events unfold. And then, at some later point, a stable pattern snaps into focus. Suddenly earlier events make sense in a way they didn’t before. The shape of the whole becomes apparent, and it’s hard to shake the feeling that the pattern must have been “guiding” things all along.

But that’s not backwards causation. That’s late recognition.

Coherence was always there. Awareness wasn’t.

Humans experience this constantly, because we live inside recursive systems—lives, relationships, cultures, creative processes—without access to the global view while we’re in motion. We experience locally and sequentially. Meaning, by contrast, often lives at a higher resolution and only becomes legible once enough of the system has unfolded.

This is why some things feel true before you understand them.

Recognition often arrives in a different domain than explanation. You feel orientation before you can produce language. You sense alignment before you can justify it. You know something is off—or right—before you can point to a cause.

Music makes this obvious. You can feel a piece resolving before you could name the chord. You know when a phrase is complete without knowing why. The system has already constrained itself; you’re just catching up to what it’s doing.

The same thing happens socially. You can walk into a room and sense a shift in tone. You can feel trust forming or eroding before you could defend that judgment. You can recognize coherence in a person or a project long before you’d feel comfortable explaining it to someone else.

The mistake is assuming that because explanation arrives later, it must be *invented* later.

That’s a category error.

Different domains carry meaning differently. Some privilege language. Others privilege tone, timing, structure, or relationship dynamics. When recognition happens in one domain and explanation is demanded in another, it looks like hand-waving or rationalization. In reality, it’s a translation problem.

We’re very good at compressing experience into reports. We have to be. Compression allows coordination, memory, and speed. But compression also collapses context, and when compressed artifacts travel across domains without decompression, meaning drifts.

A signal becomes an identity.

A habit becomes a worldview.

A late explanation gets mistaken for a late invention.

What’s striking is how often disagreement here has nothing to do with bad faith. One person is responding to structure. Another is listening for tone. Another wants abstraction. Each is operating coherently within their own domain—and failing to recognize that they’re talking past one another.

This is also why people who move easily across domains are often misread. Their coherence shows up as motion rather than position. They don’t stabilize early enough to satisfy a single explanatory frame. To someone looking for labels, that can look like inconsistency. To someone attuned to pattern, it can feel right long before it sounds convincing.

That gap—between recognition and explanation—is where distrust creeps in.

We’ve trained ourselves to privilege what can be reported cleanly and early. But many of the things that actually matter—trust, alignment, danger, meaning—don’t originate there. They emerge from systems whose governing structure hasn’t fully revealed itself yet.

This isn’t an argument against explanation. Understanding still matters. Language still matters. Reporting still matters.

But not everything that feels true is ready to be named immediately. And not everything that can be named cleanly is actually true.

Some systems can’t be understood at the moment they begin. They can only be *recognized*—and explained later, once the shape has had time to appear.

It feels like backwards causation.

But it isn’t.

It’s forward time, doing what recursive systems do—

and us, slowly learning how to see them.