Maybe Your Life’s Purpose Isn’t Huge—But It’s Still Enough

I was elbow-deep in dishes—because apparently, that’s where all of life’s epiphanies happen—when the thought snuck up on me: what exactly am I doing here? Not “here” as in the kitchen (though that’s debatable too), but “here” as in existence. The rent for this planet feels high, and I’m not sure “rinse, repeat, and reheat leftovers” counts as fulfilling my cosmic lease.

It wasn’t a full-on midlife crisis; no open-field screaming or sudden trip to Bali. Just that quiet, inconvenient whisper that shows up between loads of laundry and pill organizers: What’s my actual purpose?

I’ve never believed we were dropped into the world just to eat, sleep, poop, procreate, and die. If that’s the whole point, then life’s basically a cafeteria line. Order, consume, dispose, done. Feels a little too… mechanical for something that’s supposed to mean so much.

I like to think we each have something—one thing—that tips the scale in the right direction. Not necessarily grand or cinematic. Maybe not even noticeable. Just one act that changes someone’s trajectory forever. Maybe we’ll never know it happened, and maybe that’s part of the magic.

Fifteen years ago, I saved someone’s life. Literally. Not a metaphor, not a “they were having a bad day and I listened” moment—though those count too—but a real-life “they would’ve died if I hadn’t acted” situation. I didn’t do it for applause. Didn’t even process it much at the time. But that person went on to impact hundreds of others through their work, their kindness, their presence. If I hadn’t been there that day, entire lives would look different now. That’s a thought that still makes me pause.

So… was that my purpose? Did I tick the box? Is the universe somewhere stamping a card saying, “Good job, you may now rest”? Probably not. Because there were smaller things too—the little girl I helped cross a street, the butterfly I shooed off burning concrete, the squirrel who owes me his tiny life because I honked my horn at just the right second.

How do we know which moment was the one? The thing we were here for?

We don’t. There’s no cosmic instruction manual tucked under the bassinet at birth. No divine alert popping up midlife saying, “Hey, it’s happening! This is your purpose! Don’t blink!” We just live, try not to trip too much, and hope the dots connect eventually.

But I think that’s the point. Maybe the purpose isn’t something we find—it’s something we live. In the way we show up for people. In the care we give. In the quiet kindnesses that ripple outward long after we’ve forgotten them.

And maybe that’s the best kind of legacy. Doing something good without needing the credit. Being the first domino, knowing you’ll never see the last one fall.

It’s easy to measure our worth in achievements and titles and follower counts. To believe our purpose has to come with fanfare or fireworks. But what if it’s smaller? Softer? What if we were never meant to be extraordinary—just human, and kind, and trying?

That sounds like a letdown, I know. But think about it: a small act at the right moment can change everything. And that quiet, humble impact might just be the most powerful thing we do.

So yeah, I’ve had the deep thoughts, the existential “what’s it all for” moments between doses and deadlines. And maybe I’ll never know the answer. Maybe none of us are supposed to. Because constantly chasing the why might be the one thing that keeps us from living it.

So maybe our job isn’t to uncover some grand purpose. Maybe it’s to keep showing up, keep caring, and keep making ripples in the water—even if we never see how far they reach.

Maybe that’s enough.

Actually, maybe that’s everything.

So tell me: Have you ever had one of those moments where you thought, “Wait… was that it? Was that the reason I’m here?” Drop your story in the comments—I’d love to hear it. And if this hit home, subscribe to keep walking through the big questions (and the small, messy, beautiful ones) together.