Four Misunderstandings About "Purpose in Life"

Nobody hands you a purpose in life on your eighteenth birthday. It took me until thirty-six to believe that.

One Thursday noon the school library was empty, the ceiling fan turning slowly, the smell of old paper rising from the last row of shelves. A tenth-grade girl stood at the checkout desk with a novel in her arms and asked me something that had nothing to do with the novel.

"Do you like being a librarian, miss?"

"Partly... yes."

"What's the other part?"

I stamped her card, smiled, and said I would have to think about the other part. After she left I stood there with the stamp in my hand, and the question I had been dodging for years: what was I doing this work for, and what was I living for, beyond that?

If you have ever stood in the middle of a perfectly ordinary afternoon and felt that question rise up, this is written for you. Below are four misunderstandings that come up often about "purpose in life", each with a small thing to try. I believed at least three of the four myself.

This is not saying that doing these four things will lead you to a purpose. I do not promise that, and no one can. It is also not telling you that you must have a purpose, or that you do not need one. It only unpicks four lines that tend to make people feel they are missing something that, in truth, nobody ever ruled you must have.

Two misunderstandings about size and clarity

"You need a big purpose for life to be worth it"

That evening I sat at the dinner table, chopsticks in hand, looking at a bowl of sour soup gone half cold.

"Other people save lives, build careers, do something that lasts. And me, I shelve books every day."

"What's wrong with shelving books?"

"Well... it's so small."

"Small compared to what?"

I could not answer that last question.

This misunderstanding is strong because it looks humble. It does not say "I am being criticized", it only says "I am not enough yet". But look closely and the word "big" is being measured through the eyes of someone standing outside. Whether a task is big or small is decided by whoever watches from a distance. For the person standing inside it, a girl returning a book on time, a student finding the one he needs, it is simply a day's work done. I had measured my life with someone else's ruler, then blamed myself for being short.

Try it now: Tonight write down three things you did today that nobody praised. For each one, ask: did anyone, even one person, feel a little lighter because of it? If not, that is fine. Just write it down.

"Not knowing what you want means you have failed"

On Sunday I sat in a café near my place, the iced milk coffee long since melted. My phone was open on a notes page with the title: "What do I want?" Underneath, empty. Ten minutes passed. I turned the screen face down on the table, feeling like someone who had just handed in a blank sheet in an exam room.

Thirty-six years old and I still do not know what I want. Who decided that thirty-six is when you have to?

This misunderstanding sounds like a test with an answer key, where anyone who cannot fill it in has failed. But "what I want" is not sitting ready in your head waiting for someone to ask. For me it shows up after I do something, never before. I did not know I liked teaching a girl to read until I sat beside her, listened to her hesitant voice, and noticed an entire afternoon had passed without my once looking at the clock. The question "what do I want" makes me answer before there is anything to answer with.

Try it now: Instead of asking "what do I want", ask "was there a moment today when I forgot to look at the clock?" or "was there a moment today when I felt lighter?" Write down just one moment, no need to name it yet.

Two misunderstandings about finding it once and about small things

"Meaning is something you find once, then keep forever"

One year I believed I had found it. I set up a lunchtime reading corner for students: stools, a small mat, a box of biscuits someone brought. For the first half-year I felt such meaning I came to work an hour early. Then one morning I walked into the reading corner, stood in the middle of the mat, and felt empty.

"I found it. So where did it go?"

"Maybe it never stayed put?"

I did not like the second answer, but it was truer for me.

If you believe meaning is something found once, every time it fades you think you have broken it. I was like someone who thought one really good meal would feed them for life. Meaning is closer to a meal than a medal: sometimes full, sometimes thin, and thin does not mean the last time was fake. That it fades and returns is its ordinary rhythm, at least for me.

Try it now: Write one line: "Today I felt something mattered in..." and finish it with anything. On a day when nothing did, write "nothing today". Both are true lines.

"Small things are not enough"

On Friday rain blew against the window, and the smell of damp books rose from the last shelves. Close to closing time a twelfth-grade boy came in, hair still wet, looking for a book to catch up on an assignment. I walked past three rows before I found it, and handed it to him. He said "thank you, miss" very quickly and ran for the door. That was all.

"Does that count as a purpose?"

"I never said it was a purpose."

"Then what is it?"

I stood there, my index finger still pointing up at the shelf.

The line "small things are not enough" puts a small task on the scale against something that has no name yet, and of course the thing with no name always weighs more. The deeper part is that I dismissed small things because I feared that if I accepted them as enough, I would stop searching, and stopping meant accepting, and accepting sounded like giving up. A small thing is not a scrap of a bigger thing yet to come. Sometimes it is exactly what I am looking for, only it does not wear a name tag.

The first time it felt like homework, and the second line stayed empty until the end of the week. Then one evening I managed to write: "The twelfth-grade boy was a little less flustered." I read it back, not sure it was true, but I did not cross it out. The way to know you did it right is not feeling that it has great meaning. It is that each evening you can recall one thing, however small.

On a day too tired for it, only the first line is left. The easiest place to slip is turning the paper into a scoreboard: counting how many things I managed this week against last week. It tempts because it can be measured. But it takes me right back to where I started, where a task has to be big enough to count. Just write and fold it away, do not add up.

If you tried it and still feel empty

There are two common reasons. First: the emptiness is real, and the four things above do not fill it. That is all right. "Not knowing what I am living for" is an ordinary thing to sit with, not a problem that has to be solved before closing time. Some moments, sitting beside it is enough.

Second: writing does not suit everyone. If picking up a pen only makes it heavier, change the method. Talk to someone you trust, walk a stretch without your phone, or sit and watch the rain on the porch. What matters is one moment for the question to be there without being forced to answer.

One more thing. If a feeling of emptiness or pointlessness lasts for many weeks, heavy enough that eating and sleeping are upended, that you do not want to do things you used to like or do not want to see anyone, please talk to a professional. Not because you are broken, but because some things weigh more when carried alone. And if you think about hurting yourself, even if it is only a passing thought, that thought cannot wait: speak with someone you trust today. The Emergency Support page explains what holds true in moments like that.

That Friday afternoon the rain stopped and I locked the library. Under the eaves, water dripped from the gutter onto the step, one drop at a time. The tenth-grade girl's question was still there. I let it stay there.

No need to answer today.

This article was created with AI assistance.