What If My Purpose Is Different?

The Question that Won't Go away

Maybe I was never meant to climb the ladder.
Maybe I was meant to trace the roots, to feel the earth instead—
to dig into the imperceptible, to understand what nourishes the soul beneath the noise.

For so long, I measured worth by how well I could perform, produce, advance in my career, be accepted by peers, endure.
But what if my purpose isn’t in producing at all?
What if it’s in noticing, in witnessing, in naming the things most people rush past?
In being a fly on the wall and watching things grow and flourish?

I’ve spent years in roles that never quite fit—
jobs that drained me, goals that weren’t mine,
a version of success that left me starving.
If it weren’t for finding my way into leadership—a role where I can, at last, unmask—I’m not sure how long I would have lasted.

I am open and honest with my employees. Empathetic. I treat them like people, not parts. I help them grow as such.
And I like to think I take a little of the sting out of corporate America for them—make it a little more human, a little more tolerable.

I do find joy in making things easier for the next.

And now, I’m beginning to wonder:
What if being different isn’t a detour from purpose,
but the very shape of it?
What if I am meant to be a loving, curious, adventurous creator—
a creator of community, of connection—
to help make life a little more bearable for others like me?

The Scripts We’re Given

I was handed a script before I even knew I had a voice, before I even knew there were different paths to chose from.

Be successful. Be strong. Be easy to get along with. Be useful. Be good. Let it be known that being “useful” also has a lot to do with the money you make and taxes you pay.

No one said it outright—not always—but it was there, burned into the leather of every expectation. In grades, in praise, in silence. In the way approval came more easily when I was helpful but quiet, capable but not disruptive, smart but not too strange.

And so I chased the version of purpose that was sold to me: productivity. I never could quite grasp what productivity meant—only that it meant going from task to task. And the tasks never end. Achievement. Respect earned through performance. A steady climb, a well-paved path, a life that looked good from the outside.

But the script didn’t come with space for difference. It didn’t come with the allowance from myself to make sure I was taken care of.

Masking wasn’t just a way to survive social settings—it shaped the way I imagined my future, or lack there of. This is definitely one of the areas of executive function I greatly struggle in. Never in my life have I been able to see myself to far in the future.

I didn’t just try to “fit in” with people; I tried to fit into their dreams, too. I chose goals I thought would make sense to others, that would make them proud of me. That told them I wasn’t a misfit, but a contributing member of society.  Pursued roles that looked impressive, stable, sensible. Became a version of myself that others could root for—someone who made it, even if it was quietly killing me. A death I reckon feels like being digested alive in the belly of a whale.

Maybe you know that feeling too.

Maybe you became who others needed just a little too well. For everyone else’s benefit, and at the expense of yours

A Quiet Redirection

It didn’t happen all at once.

There was no grand revelation, no single thunderclap moment where the clouds parted and my true purpose was handed to me like a vision sent down from the heavens. Instead, it was quieter, a faint whisper in my ear. Subtle. Like erosion—slow, steady, and impossible to ignore once you notice it.

It started with exhaustion I couldn’t explain away. A weariness that sleep couldn't touch. The kind of heaviness that settles in your bones, that makes even small tasks feel like climbing a staircase through quicksand. I kept pushing through it, like I was taught, being the ever dedicated soldier. Keep going. Keep performing. Just a rough patch. Or like Dory says over and over “Just keep swimming”

Over time however, I began to notice tiny cracks in the mask. Water started to leak in making breathing difficult.

Moments where I couldn’t keep up the pace. Moments where I told the truth instead of the polished answer. Moments where I paused—really paused—and felt something shift inside me.

A moment spent with my favorite human just enjoying the arts. A long, meandering conversation with my son about life and how we could all have a better life actually working for and with one another instead of competing all the time. A walk through the trees when everything else felt like a bottomless pit of ambiguity. These weren’t achievements. These weren’t milestones. But they felt true. They let me feel free

And slowly, I began to wonder:

What if this was part of it?

What if being present was more important than being productive?

What if connection—not recognition—was what I’d been missing?

There’s a kind of purpose that doesn’t ask you to run harder, but to listen deeper. To really hear and understand another. A way of living that values contribution over competition, that honors stillness as much as action. That honors love, a love that includes all. I do believe MLK had it right long ago. “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that”

I used to think my worth was in how much I could carry alone on my shoulders. How much I could do without burdening others. Now, I’m starting to believe it might lie in how gently I can set things down. In how I can truly be present in this life.

Redefining Purpose on Autistic Terms

For most of my life, I believed purpose meant productivity.
That worth came from output.
That success was measured in deadlines hit, goals exceeded, and how seamlessly I could mold myself into whatever was expected.

But what if all of that was never designed with people like me in mind?
What if the world actually loves using people like us up—until we are considered “worthless”?

What if I was never supposed to be efficient in their way—
but present in mine?

What if my ability to notice the quiet details, to see how things delicately tie together—
to pattern-recognize, to sit with someone in comfortable silence,
to feel things deeply and express them honestly (not in a robotic fashion that isn’t natural to me)—
what if none of these traits are a weakness to fix,
but a foundation to build a life on?

I spent years thinking my “real” purpose was something I just wasn’t worthy enough to realize.
Too broken. Too emotional. Too much.
Like I could never be rewarded with the clarity of who I am or what I want to be.

So I worked harder than everyone—or tried, anyway.
I put on my camouflage and mask and attempted to “fix” all my “deficits.”

But as I begin to unmask, I’m starting to wonder—louder and louder each day:

What if my purpose was never on the other side of fixing myself?
What if my purpose isn’t to live as a flamingo…
but as the penguin I actually am?

What if it’s waiting here, in who I’ve been all along?

Maybe I’m meant to create spaces that feel safer.
Maybe I’m meant to brighten someone’s day—just enough to help them go one more.
Maybe I’m meant to help build a community—of people who feel lost and unheard,
but who, if given patience and understanding, have so much to give.

Maybe I’m meant to ask the questions others are afraid to ask.
To question norms that harm.
To protest injustice by existing openly and lovingly.

Perhaps I’m meant to hold space for people in their most honest moments—
to remind them they’re not alone.
To remind them they’re cared for, loved, and worthy.

Coaching makes me feel that deeply.
Writing does too.
I had forgotten how much writing helps my soul.

Even my love for wildlife—for my spirit animal, the penguins—and my need for quiet places…
it all feels like a kind of purpose.

Not because it leads to status or success,
but because it makes me feel connected, open, alive.
Maybe it leads to a community where everyone feels welcome, where everyone matters.

Purpose doesn’t have to be loud to be real.
It doesn’t have to be someone’s “status.”
It doesn’t have to be grandiose to be meaningful.

It can look like small ripples of truth in a world that prizes speed and noise.

And maybe—just maybe—
being different isn’t what gets in the way of purpose.
Maybe it’s actually what helps heal society.

The Grief and Grace of Letting Go

There’s a kind of grief we don’t talk about much.
Not the grief that comes from losing someone you love—
but the quiet ache of releasing a version of yourself
you spent years trying to become.

The job titles you chased.
The dreams that maybe were never really yours,
but felt necessary just to fit the mold.
The image you clung to,
hoping it would one day feel like home—
that you might finally feel comfortable in your own skin.

Letting go of those things can feel like collapse.
Especially when they earned you praise, stability, or a fleeting sense of belonging.
You wonder:
Was it all a waste?
Did any of it matter?
Do I still have time left?

And yet, there’s grace in the letting go.
A loosening.
A quiet peace that begins to whisper when you stop grasping for the life
that always felt just a little off.
Like something was never quite right,
but you couldn’t name it.

When you start to imagine—maybe you don’t have to keep betraying yourself
just to be “successful.”
Letting go isn’t giving up.
It isn’t quitting.
It’s choosing something different.
Something that was always waiting for you.

Choosing truth over perception.
Presence over perfection.

And yes—there is grief.
For me, there has been and still is so much of it.
There’s sadness in realizing how much of myself I handed over
just trying to be “enough.”
In remembering how much I buried—
so others wouldn’t see,
so they’d believe I was a flamingo.

But there’s also something sacred in beginning again.
In starting over with a flickering light in your chest—
faint, but growing stronger.
This time, it’s on your terms.

The dreams I’m letting go of were never really mine.
They were borrowed. Gleaned. Inherited. Expected.

Now, I get to ask:
What do I truly want?

Honestly, I don’t have a clear answer.
But I know this:

Whatever comes next may not look shiny or impressive to anyone else.
It might not bring in the proverbial “bacon.”
But it will be mine.
Rooted in truth.
Nourished by rest, curiosity, and care.

And that feels like a beginning worth grieving for.
One I’m willing to walk through—
even if it takes years.

Because I believe this grief will one day grow into a quiet kind of bliss.

A New Way Forward

I used to think purpose was a destination—
a number in a bank account, the size of your house, the name on your door.
That’s what I was told.
Keep your head down. Stay quiet. Don’t make waves. Work hard enough, prove yourself enough, endure enough… and you’ll be okay.

But the more I let go of what was never really mine,
the more I begin to realize:
purpose might not be a finish line at all.
Perhaps there is no final destination.

Maybe it’s a compass.
One that doesn’t point to a single job title, or passion, or version of success—
but instead toward alignment.
Toward truth.
Toward a life that feels most like living, not just surviving.

These days, I’m less interested in five-year plans
and more curious about what feels real—right now.
What draws me closer to myself.
What makes me feel whole.

What makes space for rest. For slowness. For softness.

I don’t know exactly what’s ahead. Honestly, I haven’t a clue.
The path isn’t neatly paved—it's still being built.
But that’s okay.

Because I’m learning to listen to the subtle pulls.
To notice what lights me up in quiet ways:
helping someone feel seen,
writing words that give shape to what others feel but can’t quite say,
building community that welcomes difference
instead of asking it to shrink.

Maybe my purpose won’t come with applause.
Maybe it will come with stillness.
With a sense of being rooted—
like I’m finally living in my rhythm,
instead of racing to keep up with someone else’s.

And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe that’s more than enough.

Closing Reflection: You’re Allowed to Want Something Different

If you’re standing at a crossroads in your life, wondering, Where do I go from here?—
not because you failed, but because something in you is stirring—
I want you to know:
You’re not lost.
You’re listening.
And that’s brave.

It’s brave to question the map you were given.
To wonder if maybe your destination is somewhere quieter, slower,
more honest.
Somewhere that might look “different” or “wrong” to the neurotypicals around you.

It’s okay if your purpose doesn’t look like theirs.
If it doesn’t come with accolades or tidy explanations.
If it asks you to rest.
If it calls you to create in your own time, in your own way.

You are allowed to want something different.
You are allowed to be your true, authentic, neurodivergent self.
To want softness over speed. Meaning over metrics.
Connection over small talk.

You don’t have to prove your worth through exhaustion, or by the taxes you pay.

You don’t have to earn your place by pretending to be someone else.

You are worthy simply because you are here. Because you are a life.
And you are not alone.

Maybe your purpose isn’t to become more like them.
Maybe it’s to become more like you.
Maybe it’s to become that butterfly.

If this resonated with you—
I’d love to hear what you’re rethinking, releasing, or reclaiming.
What dreams you’re beginning to question,
and what new paths you’re just starting to consider.

We don’t have to figure it all out alone.
Let’s make space for gentler definitions of success—
and for each other.