There was a year where I lost almost everything I thought I was.
My marriage ended. Not all at once, and not easily – but it ended. And then, as if the universe decided the lesson wasn’t clear enough, I was laid off from my job.
The role, the work, the daily structure that told me where to be and what to do and who I was in the context of other people – gone.
I remember the stillness after both. Not peace. Stillness. The kind that shows up when the signals you’ve been using to navigate suddenly go dark. I didn’t know who I was without the marriage reflecting me back to myself. I didn’t know who I was without the work telling me what I was for.
I think a lot of people carry a version of themselves that’s assembled from the outside in. Their title. Their relationship. Their place on the org chart. The role they play in someone else’s story. And that version works – it works well, actually – right up until the moment those external structures get pulled away and they’re standing in the open with nothing but the question:
What’s still here?
That’s where I was. And what terrified me wasn’t the loss itself. It was the silence where my own voice should have been.
I don’t remember deciding to write the words down. It wasn’t a workshop exercise or a journaling prompt. It was more like recognition. I’d been moving through the wreckage, trying to figure out what to rebuild, and I kept bumping into the same three things. Not goals. Not plans. Something underneath all of that – something that had been running quietly beneath every good decision I’d ever made and absent from every wrong turn I’d taken along the way.
Fiercely curious. Seeking beauty and wisdom. Driven to make things better.
I didn’t create them. I found them. Like clearing debris off a foundation and realizing the foundation was always there – I’d just buried it under job titles, relationships, and other people’s expectations of who I should be.
Fiercely curious wasn’t something I aspired to. It was something I couldn’t turn off. The kid in the library who read everything he could reach. The adult who couldn’t stop pulling on threads – any thread – just to see where it led. The person who’d rather sit with a hard question for a month than accept a shallow answer. That wasn’t a personality trait I chose. It was the bedrock I’d been standing on my whole life without realizing it.
Seeking beauty and wisdom. That one surprised me when it surfaced. It’s not a phrase that fits neatly into a professional bio. But it was undeniably true. I’d always been drawn to elegance – in ideas, in design, in the way someone explains something complex and makes it feel simple. And wisdom, not knowledge. I’d consumed enough knowledge to fill a warehouse. What I was actually after was the deeper thing – the pattern beneath the patterns. Timeless. The stuff that’s still true when everything else changes.
Driven to make things better. Not driven to win. Not driven to be seen. Driven to leave things better than I found them. Relationships, teams, systems, ideas. I couldn’t stop doing this even when it cost me. Even when nobody asked. Even when the smarter move would have been to let it go and protect my own energy.
Three lines. Not a plan. Not a strategy. A compass.
Here’s what I’ve learned about having a compass: it doesn’t tell you what to do.
It tells you which direction is toward yourself and which direction is away. That’s it. It doesn’t say “take this job” or “leave that city” or “end the conversation”. It just hums in your soul – louder when you’re aligned, quieter when you’ve drifted.
And the drifting is the part nobody talks about. Because I still drift. I take on commitments out of loyalty that pull me off course. I stay quiet in rooms where my compass is telling me to speak. I disappear into my own head for weeks, gathering information and calling it progress, when what the compass is actually saying is move. Build something. Share something. Stop preparing and start.
The compass doesn’t save me from those patterns. It just makes it easier to reorient.
That’s the uncomfortable truth about knowing your way back. Once you can hear your own signal, you lose the luxury of self-deception. Every time I override my compass – to keep the peace, to avoid being seen, to stay in the comfortable role of the person who thinks instead of the person who acts – I know I’m doing it. In real time.
I used to think the goal was to never get lost. To be so locked onto the signal that the drift couldn’t happen. I don’t believe that anymore.
The drift is part of the game. It’s just going to happen. Life is filled with noise. Other people’s needs, the market’s demands, your own fear dressed up as responsibility – all of it is constantly pulling you at you. You will drift. You will lose the signal. You will wake up one morning in a role or a relationship or a routine that has almost nothing to do with who you actually are.
The question isn’t whether you’ll get lost. The question is whether you have a way to get back home.
I have three lines. They aren’t a mantra. They aren’t an affirmation. They’re something I haven’t found the right word for yet – something between a compass and a homecoming. A reminder. A set of coordinates for who I am when I’m fully the best version of me.
Fiercely curious. Seeking beauty and wisdom. Driven to make things better.
They were there before the marriage. They were there before the career. And they’ll be with me no matter what comes next.
