Reflecting on Your Journey
There are moments in life when everything you’ve spent years building suddenly changes.
Maybe it’s divorce.
Maybe retirement.
Maybe losing a job you thought you’d have forever.
Maybe the kids move out and the house gets quiet.
Whatever it is, one day you wake up and realize the life you’ve known is over. Not because you wanted it to be, but because life had other plans.
For a long time, I thought purpose was something you found. Like it was hidden somewhere, waiting for me to stumble across it. If I just found the right job, the right relationship, the right place to live… then everything would make sense.
I’m not so sure anymore.
I think purpose is something you build.
When you’re going through a major life change, it’s easy to make that event become your identity.
You’re “the divorced guy.”
“The retired cop.”
“The man whose marriage failed.”
“The guy starting over.”
Those things may describe what happened to you, but they don’t define who you are.
I’ve realized something over the last few months.
The hardest part isn’t losing the life you had.
It’s figuring out what to do when the calendar is suddenly empty.
For years, my purpose revolved around taking care of everyone else. Going to work. Paying the bills. Maintaining a house. Being a husband. Planning for a future that, as it turns out, was never going to happen.
When those things started falling away, I felt lost.
Not because I didn’t know where I was.
Because I didn’t know who I was anymore.
That’s an uncomfortable place to be.
Most people try to fill that silence as quickly as possible.
A new relationship.
A bigger house.
Another job.
Anything to avoid sitting alone with themselves.
I’m trying something different.
Instead of asking, “What do I do now?”
I’m asking, “Who do I want to become?”
Those are two completely different questions.
One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is that purpose doesn’t usually arrive all at once.
It shows up in small decisions.
Taking the walk instead of sitting on the couch.
Calling the realtor.
Selling the house.
Planning a trip you’ve talked yourself out of for years.
Buying the RV.
Driving down a road simply because you’ve never been there before.
None of those things, by themselves, create purpose.
But together they create momentum.
And momentum is powerful.
Because once you’re moving, you stop staring so much at what you left behind.
People have asked me why I’d want to live in an RV.
Why not just buy another house?
Find another routine.
Settle back into something familiar.
The truth is, I don’t want familiar anymore.
Not right now.
For the first time in decades, I don’t have to build my life around someone else’s plans.
That doesn’t mean I don’t still care about the past.
It means I’m finally giving myself permission to be curious about the future.
Maybe I end up finding a little town somewhere in the Southwest that feels like home.
Maybe I don’t.
Maybe I spend a year wandering back roads, hiking national parks, and sitting around campfires with my dog.
Maybe somewhere along the way I discover that home isn’t a place at all.
Maybe it’s a mindset.
I don’t have this figured out.
If you’re reading this because you’re in the middle of your own major life change, I wish I could hand you a map.
I can’t.
I’m walking this road too.
Some days I wake up excited about what’s ahead.
Other days I miss the life I thought I was going to have.
Both things can be true at the same time.
Healing isn’t a straight line.
Neither is purpose.
Here’s what I do know.
Your life isn’t over because one chapter ended.
The plans you made may be gone.
The dreams you had may have changed.
But that doesn’t mean there aren’t new ones waiting for you.
Sometimes the road you’re forced onto ends up taking you somewhere you never would have chosen… and somewhere you end up being grateful you found.
That’s where I am today.
Not at the finish line.
Not with all the answers.
Just one chapter ahead, trying to build a life that feels honest.
Maybe that’s what purpose really is.
Not finding the perfect destination.
Just having a reason to keep driving.
If you’re standing at the beginning of your own “road after,” know this: you don’t have to have the next ten years figured out. Sometimes all you need is enough courage to take the next mile.
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