The Paradox

I want a life rich with experience—yet I stay at home, avoiding people. I long to create but avoid committing the time, afraid of wasting time that leads to nothing. Yet in avoiding wasting time, I waste it.

This is the paradox I live with constantly.

When my mother died of cancer, the fact that she was just twenty-three years older shattered an illusion I had about time. Twenty years felt real. Palpable. I could see the end. I was confronted with the question: What the hell am I doing with my life?

I don’t think I’m alone in this. Many of us feel we should be doing more. Something significant. Something meaningful. When I looked at how I was living, I was not satisfied. Pressure began to build. A longing for a well-lived life.

Breaking Free

Suddenly, mortality became a powerful motivator. I started running—chasing, striving. I got in shape, pursued my dream job, always pushing for more. If life is short, then the only answer is to make it count.

Yet with every accomplishment, restlessness stirred in my soul. I wanted a life of significance. As a result, accomplishment got entangled with purpose. I questioned my choices, doubted my desires, and berated myself. What once drove me forward began to hold me back. The need to live fully turned into an obsession with making the “right” choices. Instead of fueling life, it fueled paralysis.

The motivator became a monster, breathing down my neck every time I looked at my to-do list or calendar.

Two unexpected events broke this pattern, forcing me to see differently. First, our children had prematurely moved out of the house. We always said we’d do more once the kids were grown. See the world. Take risks. Chase the things we’d put off. But now that moment had arrived—sooner than we’d expected—and we weren’t just talking about the future anymore. We were standing in it.

The question wasn’t just “What’s next?” It was, “Will we actually do it?” Would we follow through on the dreams we had talked about for years? But more importantly, what did this even look like? We had a movie trailer—not a script, not even an outline.

At the same time, corporate success was bringing everything but fulfillment. Each accomplishment felt like another step away from my true calling. My spirit yearned for work that reflected my authentic self. There were jobs I thought I might want to pursue—consulting, coaching, maybe even ministry or non-profit work—but they didn’t feel right. They felt like compromises, like I was trading security for purpose instead of embracing what I was truly meant to do.

In the end, I had to admit what I’d known for years but had been too afraid to claim. Just as I’d been hiding from life’s experiences, I’d been hiding from the page. Just as I’d been avoiding meaningful encounters, I’d been avoiding meaningful work. Not in passing thoughts, not in “maybe one day” fantasies—but in the deepest, most stubborn part of my heart: I wanted to be a writer.

Every time I’d journaled about my mother’s death, written to make sense of my fears, or crafted stories to understand my own life—I was already being a writer. I just hadn’t been brave enough to claim it. It wasn’t a career option; it was the thread woven through my entire story, waiting for me to recognize it.

Living Now

Both my decision to own my calling as a writer and navigating my life’s next chapter revealed the same truth: the life I really wanted—a life of serendipitous adventures and human connections—was not going to be found in my house. It was not going to be found by repeating the same things in familiar places. And yet, this is precisely what I was doing. I was living the very antithesis of the life I said I wanted.

Why?

I was stuck in thinking that if my choices weren’t directly related to something that would go in my eulogy, then they weren’t worth the time. Hell, they weren’t worth the risk. We often get caught in a trap of believing that we can program our way to a good life. But Brené Brown puts it best: “A good life happens when you stop and are grateful for the ordinary moments that so many of us just steamroll over to try to find those extraordinary moments.”

I’ve been trying way too hard to create a life of purpose by grasping at the extraordinary. I chase significance in every action—but it creates a terrible pressure. A pressure that leads to overthinking and self-criticism. I worry more about how my choices fit into the realm of accomplishment than how they fit into the realm of what really matters.

We spend so much time obsessing over what’s next that we miss what’s now. But a well-lived life isn’t a grand strategy—it’s a series of small, faithful choices. It’s one where you live into your values. Live a life of love and service. A well-lived life is one lived intentionally.

It’s okay to let go and simply be faithful in the moment. To choose what you value. To choose what will avoid regret later instead of avoiding discomfort now.

It’s choosing to listen to my daughter because I want a relationship with her rather than trying to lecture her into being the person I think she should be. It’s pushing the publish button and sharing when I know my piece is nowhere near ready because I know feedback will make me a better writer than trying to perfect my writing in a corner. It’s putting myself out in the world and reaching others because I want connection rather than hiding in the comfort of my home.

Life is a series of moments that shape the story we leave behind. The difference between a life well-lived and a life merely endured comes down to the choices we make in those moments. The life I longed for isn’t in the things I accomplish tomorrow. It’s in the choices I make today.

I spent years waiting for the right moment. But the truth is, the moment we’re waiting for is the one we’re in right now.

What you do in this moment matters most.