You Don’t Need to Have Your Whole Life Figured Out

There may be no question capable of producing an existential crisis quite as efficiently as:

“Where do you see yourself in five years?”

It's a perfectly reasonable question.

It's also slightly absurd when you think about it.

Five years ago, did you accurately predict where you would be today?

Did you know exactly where you'd be working? Who would be in your life? What you'd care about? What you'd have lost, gained, discovered, abandoned, survived, or completely changed your mind about?

Probably not.

And yet we're regularly expected to confidently explain what our lives will look like five years from now.

Meanwhile, sometimes we open the refrigerator and forget what we went in there for.

But sure.

Let's map out 2031.

The pressure to have everything figured out goes far beyond awkward job interviews.

At some point, many of us start believing we're supposed to know the answers to some very large questions.

What career should I choose?

Where should I live?

Should I get married?

Should I have children?

What should I do with my money?

What's my purpose?

What kind of person do I want to become?

What do I want the rest of my life to look like?

These are important questions.

But underneath many of them is another question that creates much of the anxiety:

What if I choose wrong?

What if I choose a career and hate it?

What if I move somewhere and regret it?

What if I spend years building something only to realize I don't want it anymore?

We want to make the right decisions because we imagine that somewhere out there is a version of our lives where we choose correctly, everything falls neatly into place, and we never have to wonder what might have happened if we'd taken another path.

Unfortunately, life doesn't work that way.

And perhaps that's not such a terrible thing.

Because you aren't supposed to make decisions today for every version of yourself you'll ever become.

We Mistake Certainty for Security

There's something comforting about having a plan.

A plan creates order.

It takes the enormous uncertainty of the future and turns it into a sequence of manageable steps.

I'll finish school.

I'll find a good job.

I'll save money.

I'll buy a house.

I'll build a career.

I'll retire somewhere warm and finally become the sort of person who owns matching patio furniture.

Plans can be useful.

The problem begins when we expect them to provide something they can't:

certainty.

We sometimes imagine that if we make all the right decisions now, we can protect ourselves from disappointment later.

Choose the right career and you'll always feel fulfilled.

Choose the right relationship and you'll never feel lonely.

Make the right financial decisions and you'll never feel insecure.

Choose the right path and you'll never experience regret.

But even good decisions don't come with guarantees.

You can choose a career you genuinely love and eventually outgrow it.

You can enter a wonderful relationship and still encounter difficult seasons.

You can save carefully and still face unexpected expenses.

You can make what seems like the best possible decision and discover that life had information you didn't.

That's not necessarily evidence that you chose badly.

It's evidence that you aren't able to predict the future.

Neither is anyone else.

Planning can prepare us for the future. It cannot control it.

Once we understand that difference, planning becomes much healthier.

We can make thoughtful choices without demanding guarantees from them.

The Person Making the Plan Is Going to Change

Imagine giving your eighteen-year-old self permanent authority over the rest of your life.

Everything.

Career.

Relationships.

Where you live.

How you spend your money.

What you value.

What makes you happy.

What you wear.

Actually, depending on what you wore at eighteen, that last one alone may be enough to end the experiment.

The point is that you've changed.

Of course you have.

Experiences change us.

Relationships change us.

Loss changes us.

Success changes us.

Failure changes us.

Age changes us.

Sometimes we simply encounter an idea, person, place, or experience that rearranges something inside us.

The person you were ten years ago couldn't possibly have known everything the person you are today would eventually learn.

So why do we expect the person we are today to know exactly what the person we'll become ten years from now will want?

The career that excites you at twenty-five may exhaust you at forty-five.

The city you couldn't imagine leaving may eventually feel too small.

Something you once considered essential to happiness may become surprisingly unimportant.

And something you barely noticed may eventually become one of the most meaningful parts of your life.

Changing your mind doesn't automatically mean your previous decision was wrong.

Sometimes a decision can be right for one chapter of your life without being right for the entire book.

We don't usually consider childhood a failure because we eventually became adults.

We understand that one stage naturally gives way to another.

Perhaps we could extend ourselves the same generosity elsewhere.

Stop Treating Every Decision Like It's Permanent

Some decisions genuinely have lasting consequences.

It's wise to think carefully about them.

But we have an impressive ability to turn even relatively ordinary choices into lifetime contracts.

Maybe you're considering a new career.

Immediately the mind asks:

But do I want to do this forever?

Maybe you're thinking about moving somewhere.

But do I want to live there forever?

Maybe you want to start a creative project.

But is this really my purpose?

Maybe you're interested in learning something new.

But what am I going to do with it?

Who said you had to do anything with it?

Who said forever was required?

Not every choice needs to become your identity.

Some things are experiments.

Some are seasons.

Some are stepping stones.

Some teach you enough to make the next decision.

And some things simply bring you happiness for a while.

That's allowed too.

Instead of constantly asking:

“Is this what I want for the rest of my life?”

try asking:

“Does this make sense for the life I'm living now?”

That's a much more answerable question.

Maybe the answer is yes.

So you take the step.

Later, you ask again.

Life has changed.

You've changed.

Maybe the answer is still yes.

Maybe it isn't.

Then you decide again.

That's not failure.

That's participation.

The Search for the “Right” Life Can Keep You From Living One

There is a strange irony in trying to figure out your entire life.

Sometimes the harder you try, the less you actually live.

You research.

You plan.

You think.

You reconsider.

You make a pros-and-cons list.

Then you make another pros-and-cons list because apparently the first list lacked sufficient authority.

You ask five people what they think.

Unfortunately, they give you six different opinions.

So you research some more.

At first, this feels responsible.

But eventually planning can become avoidance.

We tell ourselves we're waiting for clarity when what we're actually waiting for is a guarantee.

And guarantees rarely arrive.

So we stay where we are.

Not necessarily because we want to be there, but because uncertainty feels more frightening than dissatisfaction.

This is where experience becomes important.

There are some things you cannot completely figure out by thinking about them.

You don't know whether you'll enjoy painting until you paint.

You don't know whether you'll like a field until you learn something about it.

You don't know whether a project has potential until you begin creating it.

You don't know exactly how you'll feel living somewhere you've never lived.

Thought can help us prepare.

Experience gives us information.

You don't always need more certainty. Sometimes you need more experience.

Try something.

Pay attention.

Learn.

Adjust.

That's often how clarity actually develops.

Direction Is More Useful Than a Destination

If we can't know exactly where our lives are going, does that mean we shouldn't plan at all?

Of course not.

It means we can plan differently.

Instead of demanding a detailed picture of the future, think about the direction you want your life to move.

Maybe you don't know exactly what career you want.

But you know you want more creativity.

Maybe you don't know where you want to live permanently.

But you want a stronger sense of community.

Maybe you don't know your life's grand purpose.

But you know you want your work to help people.

Maybe you don't know what your life will look like in ten years.

But you'd like it to contain more peace.

More curiosity.

More connection.

More freedom.

More adventure.

More time spent doing things that actually matter to you.

Those aren't destinations.

They're directions.

And directions are incredibly useful.

They can help you decide whether an opportunity fits.

They can help you recognize when something no longer does.

They can guide today's decisions without requiring you to predict tomorrow.

A compass can still be useful when you don't have a map.

That's one of the reasons mindfulness matters so much here.

When we're obsessed with figuring out the future, our attention is constantly somewhere that doesn't exist yet.

We're mentally living five years from now while today's life quietly passes underneath us.

Being present doesn't mean ignoring the future.

It means making today's decisions from today's reality.

You can face the direction you want to go while still keeping your eyes on the ground beneath your feet.

Leave Some Blank Pages

We tend to treat uncertainty like empty space.

And empty space makes us uncomfortable.

We want to fill it.

We want answers.

Plans.

Dates.

Goals.

We want to know what happens next.

But empty space isn't only uncertainty.

It's also possibility.

Think about some of the most meaningful things that have happened in your life.

How many did you accurately predict?

Perhaps you met someone unexpectedly.

Discovered an interest you never knew you'd have.

Found an opportunity because something else didn't work out.

Went somewhere you hadn't planned to go.

Changed your mind about something you once believed with absolute certainty.

Your future contains things you don't currently know exist.

People you haven't met.

Places you haven't seen.

Ideas you haven't encountered.

Skills you haven't developed.

Possibilities you aren't capable of imagining yet.

There's something almost sad about believing the best possible future is limited to whatever your present self can currently picture.

Some of the best parts of your life may eventually come from things you don't even know to want yet.

Leave room for them.

You don't need to fill every blank page before you get there.

You Can Change Your Mind Without Betraying Your Past

Changing direction becomes especially difficult when we've invested a lot into the old one.

Maybe you've spent ten years building a career.

Maybe you've invested money into something.

Maybe you've told everyone this is what you wanted.

Maybe you've organized your identity around a particular goal.

Walking away can feel like admitting those years were wasted.

So we stay.

Sometimes far longer than we want to.

We think:

I've already put so much into this.

That's understandable.

Changing direction can have real costs, and we shouldn't pretend otherwise.

But continuing toward something you no longer want doesn't automatically make the time you've already spent more valuable.

You don't have to honor your past by sacrificing your future to it.

The person who made those earlier choices wasn't stupid.

They made decisions based on what they knew, needed, valued, and hoped for at the time.

Maybe those choices brought you here.

Maybe they taught you skills.

Maybe they introduced you to people.

Maybe they taught you exactly what you don't want.

That's still information.

You can appreciate the person you were without requiring the person you're becoming to want exactly the same things.

Thank that version of yourself for getting you here.

Then let the person you are now participate in deciding what comes next.

Make Decisions With the Information You Have Today

Here's the uncomfortable truth:

You will never have all the information.

You can't.

Some of it hasn't happened yet.

So perhaps the goal isn't to make decisions you'll never reconsider.

Perhaps the goal is simpler.

Make the best decision you reasonably can with what you know today.

Then stay awake to your life.

Notice what changes.

Notice what you learn.

Notice when something that once felt right no longer does.

And be willing to adjust.

That's not indecisiveness.

It's responsiveness.

Life gives you new information.

You learn.

You change.

You respond.

A tree doesn't fail because it grows in a direction it couldn't have predicted as a seed.

Neither do you.

A Small Exercise: Find Your Life Compass

Take ten quiet minutes sometime this week.

Instead of trying to design the next ten years, answer four smaller questions.

1. What am I currently trying to have completely figured out?

Career? Relationship? Money? Purpose? Where to live? Who you're supposed to become?

Name it.

2. What part of that decision actually needs an answer right now?

Separate today's real decision from the twenty imaginary future decisions you've attached to it.

You may discover that you don't need nearly as many answers as you thought.

3. What direction do I want my life to move toward?

Choose a few qualities rather than achievements.

Peace.

Creativity.

Connection.

Stability.

Adventure.

Service.

Freedom.

Growth.

What do you want more of in the life you're building?

4. What decision makes sense for the person I am today?

Not forever.

Not for every future version of you.

Today.

Make that decision as thoughtfully as you can.

Then give yourself permission to learn something new tomorrow.

You Haven't Met All of Yourself Yet

Think about all the versions of yourself that have already existed.

The child who imagined adulthood would look one way.

The teenager who was absolutely certain about things you've completely changed your mind about.

The younger adult who made plans.

The person who encountered experiences they never expected.

Each version of you knew something.

None of them knew everything.

Neither do you.

And that's not a flaw.

There are future versions of you that you haven't met yet.

They'll know things you don't know.

They'll care about things you don't care about yet.

They may discover places, people, ideas, dreams, and possibilities you currently have no way of anticipating.

Maybe your responsibility isn't to decide their entire lives for them.

Maybe it's simply to hand them something worth building from.

Make the best choices you can with the life that's in front of you.

Follow the direction that matters to you now.

Change course when life teaches you something new.

And leave a few pages blank.

You haven't met all of yourself yet.

Give the rest of you some room to arrive. 🌿