what if you don’t have a purpose

some mornings, the guilt starts before i even open my eyes. a kind of soft panic that doesn’t announce itself loudly, but quietly hums beneath everything i do. it’s not the kind of panic that makes you cry or spiral, it’s the kind that makes you pick up your phone. makes you scroll through lives that feel more vivid than yours. makes you wonder how other people seem to know where they’re going. makes you compare your stillness to their speed and feel like maybe you’ve missed something. that you’re supposed to be more focused, more intentional, more directed by now. that you’re supposed to be on your way to something great. that you’re supposed to have a clear answer when someone asks, so what do you want to do with your life?

for a long time, i believed that purpose was something you needed to prove. that the people who moved with confidence were the ones who had figured something out. that you only deserved to take up space if you had something valuable to offer. that life was not just to be lived, but to be built into something. something impressive. something brandable. something that gave your existence structure and symmetry and significance. and even when i started to reject hustle culture on the surface, that belief still lingered underneath. even while i preached slowness, there was a voice in my head quietly asking, but what are you building? what are you becoming?

it’s a strange and quiet grief, the kind that comes from realizing you don’t know what you want anymore. or maybe you never did, but you were too busy performing clarity to notice. for me, it didn’t arrive all at once. it was a slow erosion. a gentle disorientation. one day, the dreams i used to cling to stopped making sense. they felt heavy, mismatched, like i had outgrown them without noticing. i tried to make new ones, but nothing felt right. every idea sounded good in theory, but when i sat down to actually do it, i felt nothing. not joy, not flow—just a quiet ache. and that’s when i realized it wasn’t about the idea. it was about me. i was tired. not just physically. spiritually. tired of chasing a version of myself that was always one breakthrough away from being lovable.

the desire to have a purpose is deeply human. it gives time meaning. it turns pain into story. it transforms uncertainty into direction. but it also puts pressure on every ordinary moment. and that pressure is exhausting. because when you don’t know your purpose, every part of life starts to feel like a waste. your hobbies feel pointless. your job feels empty. your rest feels indulgent. your joy feels shallow. and suddenly, your life feels like filler. like a prologue you can’t get out of.

i spent months trying to solve that feeling. i made vision boards. i took online courses. i journaled until my hand hurt. i planned out new projects just to feel forward motion. and still, the ache stayed. and in that stillness, i had to admit something to myself that i had never said out loud: i didn’t want to be impressive. i wanted to be at peace. i didn’t want to be seen as extraordinary. i wanted to feel like enough. not because of what i was doing, but because of how i was living. gently. honestly. with care.

there’s a certain kind of life that doesn’t look like purpose but feels like truth. the kind that doesn’t come with applause, but softens you in quiet ways. it looks like making tea in the same mug every morning. it looks like texting someone you love just to remind them you’re thinking of them. it looks like folding your laundry slowly. like making something with your hands. like walking a familiar path. like eating alone without feeling empty. like resting without guilt. these are not impressive things. they won’t build an empire. they won’t land on a forbes list. but they remind you that you’re alive. and sometimes, that reminder is enough.

we’ve been taught to treat life like a pitch. every interest has to be turned into a path. every skill into a career. every story into a lesson. and in that process, we forget that some parts of life are meant to be lived without being optimized. some parts are meant to be held gently, without turning them into content. and when we lose that softness, we lose ourselves.

what i’ve come to understand is that purpose, as it’s sold to us, is too narrow. it makes us believe that only certain lives are meaningful. the ones with visibility. the ones with structure. the ones with stories that arc perfectly from challenge to triumph. but there are so many lives that don’t arc—they spiral. they expand and contract. they meander. and they are no less beautiful. no less full. no less sacred.

some people are not here to lead or create or disrupt. some people are here to soften things. to hold others. to witness. to name beauty. to build quiet homes. to bring light without needing to be the center of it. that, too, is a life. that, too, is a purpose. one that doesn’t announce itself loudly, but lingers long after you’ve left the room.

i’ve stopped trying to define my life in big words. i no longer chase clarity as proof of worth. instead, i’ve started paying attention to how i feel when no one is watching. i’ve started asking myself softer questions. not “what is my purpose?” but “what feels like peace?” not “what should i do with my life?” but “what kind of life feels like mine to live?”

some days, the answer is stillness. some days, it’s movement. some days, it’s writing something that no one will read. some days, it’s calling someone and crying without trying to fix anything. some days, it’s simply showing up. brushing my hair. feeding myself. letting the light in. letting the day be enough.

on the days when i feel especially directionless, i remind myself that rest is not the absence of purpose. sometimes it’s the container for it. sometimes the clarity only arrives when we stop trying so hard to be clear. sometimes the work is to slow down until your life starts to speak back to you in a voice you recognize.

what’s shifted for me is how i define a meaningful day. not by what i achieved. not by how aligned i felt. not by how close i got to my goals. but by how gently i moved through it. how much softness i allowed myself. how little i performed. how honest i was with my own body. and that redefinition has changed everything.

purpose, i’m starting to believe, is not a path you find—it’s a practice you return to. it’s not a destination, it’s a way of being. and for some of us, that practice looks different. it doesn’t always feel like momentum. sometimes it feels like stillness. like a slow exhale. like building something tender in the middle of an uncertain life.

you are not behind if you don’t have a plan. you are not failing if your dreams are changing. you are not wasting time just because you are living quietly. your life is not less meaningful just because it doesn’t fit into a neat story.

you are here.

and that’s enough.