The cost of purpose
Something gets lost along the way.
I used to be spontaneous.
If I wanted to do something, I did it. Road trip? Sure. Last-minute concert? Why not? Random dinner on a Tuesday night? Let’s go.
The old version of me flew by the seat of his pants. He was down for whatever, whenever. No real direction, goal or five-year plan. He wore a lack of structure like a badge of honor — proudly. He loved the flexibility he thought it gave him.
Every day felt open-ended. Possibility existed everywhere because nothing was predetermined. There were no guardrails. Just freedom.
At least that’s how I saw it at the time.
But slowly, things began to change.
Some of it was age. Some of it was responsibility. And some of it was the realization that freedom without direction isn’t always freedom at all.
As life became more complex, I found myself craving certainty.
The carefree guy who used to make decisions based on what sounded fun began making decisions based on what created stability.
The spontaneous version of me slowly gave way to a version who planned and prepared.
The change wasn’t dramatic. It happened gradually, one tradeoff at a time.
Fewer nights at the bar. Fewer concerts. Less time watching sports. Cutting out video games entirely.
Movies, television, spontaneous restaurant outings, aimless weekends — all of it slowly got replaced with spreadsheets, books, budgets, business ideas, financial planning and long-term strategy.
Even music changed.
There was a time I’d spend hours discovering new artists, getting lost in albums and appreciating the craft behind them. A great song could stop me in my tracks. Now I often drive in silence, thinking through what needs to be solved next.
And it’s not just music.
Somewhere along the way, I became so focused on creating that I stopped enjoying what others create. Books became research. Podcasts became education. Social media shifted from doom scrolling to only seeking useful ideas.
I didn’t consciously choose that mindset. It came from years of living in pursuit mode.
When you’re obsessed with building, it’s easy to lose your appreciation for simply experiencing things.
Conversations don’t even land the same way.
Old topics don’t hold me. New subjects do.
So even when I’m present, something in me isn’t fully there.
That dichotomy plays tricks on me.
I became obsessed with purpose.
The mission: buy back my time and establish a sturdy financial foundation for Parker.
Everything started flowing through that lens.
Every extra hour worked. Every dollar invested. Every system built. Every lesson learned.
And it’s working.
My finances are stable. I’m investing consistently. I’ve taken real steps toward securing Parker’s future.
My life is rounding into the shape I’ve spent years carefully molding it to become.
The structure I used to lack is now just…my life.
The irony is that now that structure is in place, I feel something else missing — presence.
Because while my purpose is focused on tomorrow, my presence is required today.
It’s required with Parker, with family and in the little moments that make up a life: A conversation that doesn’t need to be rushed. A walk without checking my phone. A Saturday afternoon that isn’t optimized for productivity.
But turning off the pursuit has become surprisingly difficult.
For so long, there was always another problem to solve, another leak to plug, another goal to chase. Forward motion became my default setting.
Now every moment my foot isn’t on the gas feels like stagnation. And stagnation somehow feels like regression.
So the cycle continues: Build. Learn. Improve. Repeat.
Maybe that’s just me now. I don’t really know.
Maybe there isn’t a switch that can be flipped to make ambition disappear.
And truthfully, I don’t think I’d want it to.
The ambition that sometimes robs me of presence is also the ambition that created the life I’m grateful for today.
Abandoning purpose isn’t the goal. Coexisting with it is.
Trusting that the systems are working. Believing that not every minute needs to be optimized. Building for tomorrow while remaining available for today.
I needed structure.
Now I have it.
The future feels more secure than it ever has.
Still, every now and then, I miss the guy who was down for whatever.
I was like what you describe you are now and have been that way over 30 years (but with balance). Now retired with more money than we need with a stable, loving family, I am working to rediscover spontaneity. I hope you also come full circle. For me, it’s a journey worth taking.
Again, a question of Balance?