Been thinking about this all week. How we spend so much time trying to figure out what we’re supposed to be doing that we forget to notice what we’re actually doing. Like there’s this imaginary finish line where everything clicks into place and you finally understand the point of it all, but meanwhile you’re already in the middle of your life, already making the thing you thought you’d have to wait to make.
I was talking to someone the other day who’s been building something for three years. Good work. The kind that matters to people. And they said, “I still don’t know if this is what I’m supposed to be doing.” Three years in. Already helping people. Already showing up every day. And still waiting for some cosmic confirmation that they’re on the right path.
Made me realize how much of my own energy I’ve spent looking for that same confirmation. Like the universe is supposed to send a certified letter telling you you’re doing it right. But that letter never comes, does it? What comes instead are just more days. More decisions. More chances to either show up or not show up. And somewhere in all that showing up, you look around and realize you’ve been building something the whole time.
The weird part is how we can be so deep into our own lives and still feel like we’re waiting for them to start.
The Thing We Keep Waiting For
I think we’re all waiting for permission we already have.
Permission to say the thing matters. Permission to claim the work we’re already doing. Permission to stop hedging every statement about our lives with “I mean, it’s not a big deal, but…” when it actually is a big deal to us, and that’s the only measurement that counts.
There’s this gap between what we’re doing and what we’re willing to admit we’re doing. Like if we don’t name it, we can’t fail at it. If we don’t claim it, we don’t have to defend it. So we keep our biggest work at arm’s length, treating it like a hobby or a side thing or something we’re “just trying out” even when we’ve been trying it out for years.
I’ve done this with writing. Done it with every project that mattered. Spent months—sometimes years—building something while simultaneously pretending I wasn’t really building it. Telling people “oh, it’s just this thing I’m messing around with” when I was actually pouring everything I had into it. When I was waking up thinking about it and going to sleep thinking about it and structuring my entire life around it.
But I wouldn’t call it what it was. Wouldn’t say “this is my work” because saying that felt too exposed. Too vulnerable. Like if I named it and it didn’t work out, the failure would be bigger somehow.
The universe has a weird way of working things out, though. Because eventually you realize the failure isn’t in claiming the work. The failure is in never claiming it at all. In spending your whole life doing something that matters to you while pretending it doesn’t matter. In building something real while insisting it’s not really real.
What Gets Built While We’re Looking Away
Some days you just gotta sit with it. With how much gets built in the margins. In the early mornings and late nights and stolen hours between everything else. How the things that end up mattering most are usually the things we were doing while we thought we were waiting to start.
I look back at the last five years and I can see it now. All the work that happened while I thought I was just figuring things out. The conversations that shaped how I think. The projects that taught me what I was capable of. The failures that showed me what I actually cared about. None of it felt significant in the moment. All of it was significant.
That’s the thing about direction—you can only see it looking backward. Forward, it just feels like fumbling around. Like making it up as you go. Like hoping you’re not wasting your time. But then you turn around and there’s a path behind you. Clear as anything. All those random decisions and weird pivots and times you chose one thing over another, and somehow it adds up to something that makes sense.
Not perfect sense. Not the sense you would’ve planned if someone had given you a map at the beginning. But sense nonetheless. Your sense. The particular shape of a life that got lived instead of planned.
And maybe that’s the point. Maybe we’re not supposed to know what we’re building while we’re building it. Maybe the knowing comes later, after we’ve already done the work. After we’ve already made the choices. After we’ve already become whoever we’re becoming.
Every day’s a hustle, but it’s not always a hustle toward something you can name. Sometimes it’s just a hustle to show up. To do the next thing. To keep building even when you can’t see the blueprint.
The Letter We’re Already Writing
I don’t have this figured out. Still spend too many days wondering if I’m doing it right. Still catch myself hedging. Still treat my biggest work like it might not count.
But I’m starting to think the waiting is the thing we have to let go of. The waiting for clarity. The waiting for permission. The waiting for some external force to validate that yes, this matters, yes, you’re on the right path, yes, you can stop questioning now.
Because nobody’s coming to tell you that. The universe doesn’t work that way. What it does instead is just keep giving you days. Keep giving you choices. Keep giving you chances to either claim your work or keep pretending it’s not really your work.
And maybe claiming it doesn’t mean having it all figured out. Maybe it just means saying this is what I’m doing. This is what matters to me. I don’t know if it’s the right thing, but it’s my thing, and I’m going to keep showing up for it.
Been thinking about this all week. How we’re all already writing the letter we think we’re waiting to receive.