For a long time, I lived my life by other people’s maps—carefully drawn lines of who I was supposed to be. I followed them dutifully, out of love, out of fear, out of habit. I was good at it. I knew how to show up, how to serve, how to be the version of myself that made others comfortable.
But somewhere deep inside, another compass was spinning. Not broken—just buried. Waiting.
What gives me direction now isn’t a destination. It’s not a five-year plan or some tidy purpose statement. It’s authenticity. The fierce, holy pull to live as the person I actually am—not the one I crafted to survive. When I started aligning my outside with my inside, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: peace. Not the kind that comes from everything going right, but the kind that comes from finally being true.
My faith gives me direction too. Not the brittle faith of performance, but the living, breathing faith that has sustained me even when I couldn’t hold myself. I still believe in the God who sees. Who names us beloved before we are useful, before we are acceptable. And now, when I read scripture, I don’t just see ancient stories—I hear my name whispered in the margins.
Love keeps me moving forward. Love for my wife and children, even when the path between us is difficult. Love for my church, even when I’m uncertain about where I fit in it. Love for those who don’t understand me, because I know what it’s like to live a life that doesn’t make sense to others. Love doesn’t always illuminate the way, but it reminds me that the journey is worthwhile.
And finally, I’m guided by purpose. I’ve come to believe that my story matters—not because it’s easy, but because it’s true. If living this truth out loud means that one person feels less alone, then it’s worth every hard conversation, every loss, every trembling first step.
So I keep going. Not because I have all the answers, but because I truly trust the compass within me.
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