3 Life Lessons From Losing My Way

I lost my way at 27.

Not in the dramatic, cliffhanger kind of way where I sold all my things and moved to Bali with nothing but a journal and a dream. No, I lost my way quietly—like misplacing your keys, only to realize they’ve been in your hand the entire time.

It started with burnout, though I didn’t call it that back then. I called it being responsible. Being driven. Being an adult.

At 24, I was the rising star of a midsized marketing firm in Chicago. Promotions came fast. Praise came often. I had a sleek apartment, the kind with floortoceiling windows and granite countertops I never used. Every week was a blur of deadlines, meetings, and afterhours emails. I told myself I was lucky. I told myself I was on track.

But somewhere in all that noise, I stopped hearing myself.

It hit me on a Tuesday.

The morning began like any other: oatmeal, inbox, rush hour. But at 10:13 a.m., during a quarterly review with a client I didn’t even like, something snapped. My hands were typing, my mouth was moving—but I felt nothing. Not pride. Not pressure. Not even boredom.

I stared at the screen, the words blurring into static.

I don’t want to do this anymore.

The thought arrived uninvited, heavy and final, like a judge’s gavel. And for the first time in years, I listened.

That night, I quit. No two weeks’ notice. No plan. Just a polite email and a single suitcase packed with things that felt like me, not the version of me I’d been selling.

I spent the next six months wandering. First physically—crashing on couches, visiting friends, taking temp jobs to get by. Then emotionally—wrestling with fear, guilt, and the haunting suspicion that I had just thrown away everything I had worked for.

But that journey, painful and uncertain as it was, taught me three life lessons I carry with me like armor.

Lesson 1: Success Without Alignment is a Slow Kind of Drowning

The world loves a shiny résumé. So did I. For years, I chased metrics—titles, bonuses, LinkedIn accolades—as if they were proof of my worth. But what no one tells you is that you can be “killing it” on paper and feel utterly dead inside.

The job wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t mine. Not in the way purpose should feel—like a coat that fits perfectly, even if no one else would wear it.

I learned that success without alignment is just performance. It’s a life lived in quotation marks.

Real fulfillment isn’t found in other people’s applause. It’s found in the quiet moments when you feel like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Lesson 2: Rock Bottom is a Terrible Place—But an Excellent Foundation

There were nights I cried into instant noodles, wondering if I had ruined my life.

There were mornings I felt like a fraud, scrolling through job listings I had no interest in, just to feel “normal” again.

But the thing about losing your way is that it strips you down to your most honest parts. When the noise fades, the voice you buried under obligations and expectations finally speaks up.

And it said:

“Start over—but this time, build something true.”

So I started small. I volunteered at a local nonprofit helping kids with writing skills. I began freelancing parttime, writing blogs and stories that actually made me feel something. I picked up journaling again, not for likes or content—but to reconnect with the me I forgot.

Rock bottom humbled me. But it also gave me permission to rebuild. And this time, I chose brick by brick, not blueprint by default.

Lesson 3: The Path Isn’t Lost—It’s Just Hidden Beneath Who You Thought You Had to Be

Six months after I quit, I got an email from the non profit I had been helping. They were launching a youth mentorship program and wanted me to help design it. “You seem to really get these kids,” they said.

I stared at the screen, stunned. They didn’t ask for my degree. They didn’t care about my past salary. They cared that I showed up, that I listened, that I cared.

That gig turned into something more. A year later, I was working fulltime in education outreach—writing curriculum, coaching teenagers, helping them find their own voices before the world told them to silence it.

It wasn’t glamorous. But it felt real. It felt right.

And for the first time, I realized:

I hadn’t lost my way.

I had just finally stepped off the wrong one.

Now, when people ask me what I do, I don’t recite a job title.

I say, “I help people find their voice.”

And sometimes, if they seem like they need to hear it, I add,

“Because I lost mine once, too.”

If you’re reading this and you feel lost—good.

It means you’re awake.

It means you’re listening.

It means the story you’ve been writing is about to get interesting.

And if you take nothing else from my mess, remember this:

You are not behind. You are not broken. You are becoming.

And sometimes, the most important journeys begin the moment we finally get lost.