When You Can’t See the Future: Living Without a Map

1. The Fear of Not Knowing

I used to think everyone else had a map. Like they were handed a life-instruction book at birth— tucked neatly in a drawer or passed down like a family heirloom. A quiet little pocket guide. One of those “For Dummies” books, breaking it down to the most basic level. One that whispered: Here’s what comes next. Here’s how to be okay.

I think maybe someone forgot to send a copy to me— or maybe it got lost in the sorting machine of the universe.

And for years, I blamed myself for not knowing what to do or which road to take. I tried to follow the ones they said led to happiness and prosperity— school, work, performance, “perfection”— but the further I walked, the less familiar it all felt.

I kept wondering: Did I miss a step? Did I take a wrong turn? Each milestone shimmered like a mirage. Each step forward felt like a step further from myself.

Now, after diagnosis— after the first tears in the mask, after years of pretending to know the way— I find myself standing in unfamiliar terrain.

A foreign land with no comprehension of the local language. No map. No compass. Even the constellations are unfamiliar, if they’re visible at all. The sun doesn’t rise or set in ways I recognize. My sense of direction spins, unanchored.

And I won’t lie: it’s terrifying. To live without a plan is to live in the in-between. In the upside-down. Where shadows stretch long, and doubt echoes louder than hope.

But maybe this is where something real begins. Not a path laid out for me— but one I shape with trembling hands and a stubborn heart.

Maybe there’s something sacred in standing among the great pines in the dense fog. Something honest in letting go of a map that was never mine to follow.

2. Growing Up with a Script That Wasn’t Yours

They handed me a script before I even knew I’d been cast— or what part I was supposed to play. Lines etched in expectation, roles assigned without consent: Be polite. Sit still. Make eye contact. Don’t ask too many questions. Get good grades. Go to college—or in my case, the military was acceptable. Get a job. A good-paying job. Be agreeable. Don’t cause waves. Be productive. Pay your taxes. Be normal. In other words: change.

I followed it like I was supposed to, like the ever-loyal soldier— memorizing the proper wording, hitting all the goals, clapping on cue and smiling at the right times, no matter the pain.

But none of it ever felt quite real. Often, experiences are remembered through a thick veil, like I was sleepwalking. It was like acting in a play where I didn’t speak or understand the language— only the cues. And even those, not all that well.

No one ever asked if the script made sense to me, or if it was the part I wanted to play. They just told me it was universal. Everyone should strive for these things. This is what success looks like. This is how you become someone worth loving.

So I tried my best. God, I tried. And for a while, I just about got good at it— good enough that people clapped. Teachers praised my grades (though they often questioned my effort 😊). Coworkers admired my “professionalism,” my ability to “stay the course.” Some family said they were proud of me.

But what they were proud of was the mask. The mimicry. The performance. They loved the version of me that played the part best.

Not the one who went to school but found himself so overwhelmed he’d walk out and go on an adventure. Or spend the day hacky-sacking outside, avoiding class. Not the one who practiced facial expressions in the mirror to get them right— or rehearsed conversations for hours just in case they came up. Not the one whose tone fell flat, who came off grumpy or hid in the corner, because small talk felt like drowning.

I kept waiting for the script to feel like mine— for the words to roll off my tongue with ease, like something I was born to say. But they never did. Because they never were mine. They were written for someone else entirely.

And I think—deep down—I always knew that. But I kept reading them anyway, hoping that maybe, eventually, they’d start to sound like my own voice. Hoping that someday I’d be just like everyone else.

3. The Myth of the Clear Path

For a long time, I thought everyone else knew where they were going. Like the path they walked lit up in neon—bright, unmistakable, clearly marked. They moved with such certainty, spoke in confident tones, made five-year plans, backup plans, and color-coded calendars— and then actually followed through on them.

They seemed to understand the steps like they’d taken a course I’d somehow missed— or worse, like I’d tried and failed the class and quietly dropped it.

And for just as long, I believed the problem was me. Always wondering what I was doing wrong to feel so different.

But I’m beginning to question the entire premise— that there’s one clear path at all. That success is a straight road, lined with mile markers and signs that read: Well Done. Look Out for Wildlife. You’re On Track.

That’s the myth, isn’t it? That if you work hard, stick to the script, follow the instructions to the letter, you’ll arrive at some promised destination: Stability. Fulfillment. Love. Acceptance.

Some people do seem to find it. Or maybe they’re just better at faking it than I ever could be.

But I’ve started to notice something else, too— that many of those confident walkers are just as lost, just better at hiding it. That even the clearest-sounding voices are sometimes echoes of someone else’s dreams.

And the maps we hold up as universal— they were rarely drawn with people on the spectrum in mind.

They don’t include the detours of shutdowns and meltdowns. They don’t leave room for sensory exhaustion or masking fatigue. They don’t account for the invisible labor of translation— of taking in a world that feels overwhelming and trying to respond in a way that makes sense to others.

Most success stories weren’t written by neurodivergent voices. They were shaped by systems we were never meant to thrive in— systems that prize conformity over creativity, efficiency over empathy, polish over authenticity, perception over reality.

So if I feel like I’ve veered off course—or fallen completely off the road— maybe it’s because I was never meant to be on their course at all.

Maybe I’m not behind. Maybe I’m not lost. Maybe I’m just walking a different terrain— one with no road signs, no compass, but a sky full of stars waiting to be named. New lands waiting to be discovered. New communities still waiting to be met.

4. Learning to Sit With the Fog

There’s a kind of silence that comes when you stop pretending to know. Not the peaceful kind—not at first. But the kind that hums in your ears and settles in your chest like a weight. The kind that makes you itch to do something, fix something, become something.

It’s bewildering, to step off the well-trodden path and find yourself in a field with no signs, no sounds—just heavy vegetation and dense fog. A vast, quiet unknown where every direction looks the same. No discernible shapes.

I hated the stillness. I equated it to death. It still is painful. It made me feel useless. Like I was failing simply because I wasn’t moving forward. I had spent so long performing for progress—what even is progress anyway? Even when it hurt, even when it wasn’t real— that stopping felt like giving up. A kind of giving up you never get back up from.

But slowly, something unexpected is starting to happen. In the absence of the script, I am starting to hear something else. A more peaceful tune. One I’d spent years ignoring.

It doesn’t offer grand visions or detailed blueprints. It whispers things like: You’re tired. You’re allowed to rest. That doesn’t feel right. You don’t have to say yes.

I am beginning to realize that maybe clarity doesn’t come all at once. Maybe it doesn’t arrive like a lightning bolt or a revelation. Maybe it’s more like fog lifting slowly at sunrise—or the meandering beat of evolution— soft, hesitant, but steady.

Maybe it’s more about learning to see the next few steps than mapping out the whole trail. The way my brain likes to process things anyway. From the bottom up.

Sitting in the fog isn’t easy. It’s vulnerable. It’s lonely. It can be terrifying. But there’s something liberating about it, something that feels like a giant weight was lifted from the soul as well— like I’m no longer bound to someone else’s timeline, someone else’s destination, someone else’s expectations for my life.

In the fog, I am not lost. I am gathering my senses. I am listening.

5. Building a Compass, Not a Map

Maybe I’ll never have a map. No AAA highlighted routes. No clearly labeled milestones. No “You Are Here” icon blinking on the edge of certainty.

I used to think that was a failure, a misfit, a lost undeserving soul. That not having a plan—or even being able to come up with one—meant I was lazy, unmotivated, unworthy. Broken, somehow.

But I’m beginning to see it differently. Because even the clearest map in the world is useless if it leads you somewhere you don’t belong. Just like when you try to follow Google Maps through downtown Seattle— if you trust the route too literally, you might just end up in a building.

So instead, I’m trying to build a compass. Not a detailed itinerary. No historic landmarks to check off. Just a way to sense what direction feels right— even when I don’t have the foggiest idea where I’m going.

My compass isn’t made of deadlines or checklists. It’s shaped by rest. By integrity. By love. By curiosity. By the soft, steady beat of my own values.

It doesn’t always point to productivity. It doesn’t push me toward performance. Sometimes it leads me to silence. To peace and quiet. Sometimes to truth. Sometimes to connection I didn’t even know I was starving for.

I’m learning that I can move forward without having everything figured out— heck, without having a single thing figured out other than this: it’s time to listen to my internal compass.

That I can make decisions based on what nourishes my heart, my mind, my soul— not just what’s expected of me. Not just who people think I should be. Not just what success is supposed to look like.

That direction matters more than destination. In the words of The Stormlight Archive by Brandon Sanderson: “Journey before destination.”

And maybe the point was never to follow a map at all. Maybe it was always about learning to be present in your surroundings, and to listen— not for answers, but for alignment. For the small internal yes. For the quiet pulse of this feels right.

Maybe that’s enough to begin a new journey.

6. Personal Truths: Living in the Unmapped Space

I’m not going to sit here and pretend I have a clue where this path is going. Lol—actually, I could tell you where the word clue came from. Long story short: Theseus used a ball of thread (a clew) to navigate the labyrinth and find his way back after slaying the Minotaur. It helped guide him home—and over time, a clew became something that helped solve a mystery. In the 17th century, the spelling changed to clue, and voilà... but I digress.

I still wake up some days feeling like I’ve stepped into a story that hasn’t been written yet— no chapter titles, no plot points, no guarantees.

And yet… I’m still here. Every day. Still walking. Still breathing. Still trying, in my own quiet way, to live a life that feels more like mine.

Some days I feel the ache of not knowing. The pressure to perform. To prove I’m doing something “worthy” with my time. “When are you going to do something great, Erik?” The excruciating guilt that creeps in when I rest. The fear that I’ve fallen behind and don’t have enough time left to catch up.

But there are other days—softer days— where I catch a glimpse of something else. A shimmer of light on the horizon. A moment of connection. A deep breath that actually lands. An idea that sends goosebumps across my skin. A small joy no one told me to chase—but I chased anyway.

Lately, I’ve been chasing writing. It’s been deeply cathartic. Letting the words come out without sanding down the edges. Letting them cut, if they need to. Many of them leave water in my eyes as I write. But I’m learning to trust that truth is enough. It’s becoming my compass, my anchor, and my mirror.

I’m also coaching a group of teenage boys—on paper, it’s soccer. But in practice, it’s just as much about shaping trust, confidence, and presence. Helping them listen to themselves and to each other. Teaching them to put the collective first—because we all thrive in community. And, often, I find myself saying the same advice I most need to hear.

Parenting, too, is part of this unmapped space. I’m raising two neurodivergent sons while still learning what it means to be a neurodivergent adult. They are teaching me as much as I’m trying to teach them—sometimes I think even more.

More than anything, I hope they never feel like they have to hide who they are just to belong. If there’s one thing I can say with my whole being, it’s this: I never want them to feel the ostracization I’ve felt in my life, trying to fit a mold that was never meant for me. And I think—I hope—that’s something I’ve done well with them.

And somewhere in all this—the uncertainty, the healing, the reimagining— I’ve brought back my dream of penguins. Of standing on the wind-whipped shores of the Danger Islands, surrounded by over 1.5 million of my spirit animal: the Adélie penguin. Watching them waddle, belly-flop, steal each other’s pebbles, parent, swim…

They’ve always meant something to me: resilience, community, devotion, absurdity, grace. Even if I see them only once in my life, in their natural habitat, I know it will be enough.

I’m trying new things, too. Unmasking. Letting myself be seen—just a little more each day. Letting go of roles I played too long just to survive. Practicing saying no, even when my voice shakes—sometimes my whole body shakes. Choosing slowness over spectacle. Leaning into wonder, even when I don’t know what it’s for.

I don’t have any semblance of a destination in mind anymore. But I am planting things. Tiny, tentative seeds. Ideas. Boundaries. Hopes. Dreams I used to think were too soft, too strange, too unrealistic.

I don’t know what they’ll grow into. I don’t even know the name of this place I’m in. But I know I’m here. I know that slowly, I’m learning. And I know I’m no longer walking someone else’s road.

Maybe that’s what it means to live in the unmapped space— to let the landscape shape itself around you, and trust that your footsteps matter, even if no one’s walked them before.

7. For the Ones Without a Plan

If you don’t have a five-year plan… If you don’t even know what you’re doing next week… If you’ve stepped off the path everyone else seems to follow and now find yourself staring into the fog—

you’re not failing. You’re not broken. You’re not behind. You’re just somewhere honest. Somewhere you are meant to be.

There is great courage in not knowing. There is stunning beauty in sitting with the questions. There is deep wisdom in pausing long enough to hear your own voice come through the noise.

We are not all meant to walk paved roads. Some of us were born for the unmarked trail. The unnavigated trail. For the slow wander, the gentle detour, the wide open sky.

Some of us are mapmakers. Seed-planters. Compass builders. Not because we always know the way— but because we’ve learned to listen differently.

If you're out there— tired, untethered, maybe even a little afraid— I want you to know:

You are not alone. You are not lost. You are simply off-script.

And sometimes, that’s exactly where the real story begins.