The Day I Stopped Chasing and Started Living

For most of my life, I believed purpose was something you had to chase. Like a train pulling away from a station, it always seemed just out of reach — and I was always running, breathless, behind it.

In school, they told us to “follow our dreams.” But no one really explained what that meant, or how to even know what your dream was. So I did what most people do: I copied what looked successful. I pursued a degree I didn’t care about. Took a job that paid the bills. Smiled at the right times. Said “I’m fine” when I wasn’t. I wore ambition like a suit two sizes too big, hoping one day I’d grow into it.

But deep down, I felt empty.

The turning point came on a rainy Tuesday morning. I was late to work. Again. Traffic had stalled for half an hour, and I remember gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. The radio played a story about a 45-year-old man who quit his corporate job to become a beekeeper. He said, “I woke up one day and realized I didn’t know who I was. So I started over.”

That hit me like a punch to the gut. Because I didn’t know who I was, either.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying his words in my head. Was it possible to start over? Was purpose not something you found in a corner office or a salary bracket? Could it be something simpler?

I didn’t quit my job the next day. I didn’t move to the mountains or grow a beard or buy bees. But I did something scarier — I started listening to myself.

At first, I couldn’t hear much. Just static. Years of ignoring my own voice had made it faint. But slowly, I started noticing what lit me up. I remembered how I used to love writing. Not emails or reports — real writing. Stories. Observations. Moments.

So, I started writing again. Not for an audience. Just for me. Ten minutes in the morning. Fifteen minutes before bed. I wrote about what I saw, what I felt, what I remembered. Some days it flowed. Some days it didn’t. But I kept going.

I also started walking — no destination, no purpose — just to notice things. I saw birds I’d never paid attention to. Smelled jasmine I never realized bloomed on my street. I made eye contact with strangers. Some smiled back.

One day, I passed a park bench and saw an older woman feeding pigeons. I smiled. She nodded. I sat next to her, and we talked for over an hour. She told me she used to be a painter but hadn’t picked up a brush in 20 years. “Life got in the way,” she said. I nodded, understanding that sentence in my bones.

Purpose, I realized, isn’t one big thing. It’s a million small things that make you feel alive. It’s not a job title. It’s not a five-year plan. It’s not something you chase. It’s something you grow into when you pay attention to what matters to you.

Eventually, I left my job. Not out of rage or impulse — but because I had something else calling me. I started freelance writing. It was scary and uncertain, but it felt honest. Real. Mine.

Some days, I still doubt myself. I still worry about money. About failure. But I no longer feel empty.

Because every day now, I wake up and do things that matter to me — not to a resume or a performance review.

And that, I think, is what purpose really is: waking up and knowing you're spending your time on what aligns with your soul, not just your calendar.

So if you’re like I was — feeling lost, stuck, or disconnected — know this: you don’t have to have all the answers. You don’t need a perfect plan. Just start listening. Start noticing what makes you feel alive. Follow that, even if it doesn’t make sense at first.

Your purpose isn’t hiding. It’s waiting. And it sounds a lot like your own voice — the one you’ve been ignoring for far too long.