Inner Horizons...

The sound of a distantly racing car reached my ears. I leaned back on the balcony, watching the headlights flash by in the distance, blending with the city lights like a pulse of energy that I felt both a part of and removed from. I’m sixty now, and moments like these—quiet, still, where the world hums around me but doesn’t touch me—seem to bring up questions I thought I’d answered long ago.

I’ve spent most of my life in routines, in fulfilling responsibilities, in moving forward one step at a time, like a steady march. There were years filled with work, family, commitments. It was a good life, I think. Busy, productive. But as I sit here, feeling the weight of that life behind me, I wonder what it all meant. What was it for? What was I really meant to be doing? Or did I miss it, somehow, swept along by all the things I thought I had to do?

People talk about purpose, about following your passion, as if it’s something simple, a truth just waiting to be discovered. But purpose has always felt elusive to me, like something just beyond my reach. I sometimes think it would need to be validated by something greater than myself—a higher power, a sign, some proof that I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. Without that, how can I be certain that I’ve lived the life I was supposed to live? 

Over the years, there were moments of happiness, even of peace. Small joys that felt like glimme

Advertisement

rs of something real—a conversation, a quiet morning, a fleeting sense of fulfillment. But they were just that: moments. A passing feeling of contentment doesn’t necessarily mean I understood my purpose, or that I was ever truly connected to something larger than myself. 

I look out at the lights, feeling a pang of longing I can’t quite name. I wonder if others have felt this way, or if most people have their own quiet confidence that they’ve found what they were looking for. Or maybe we’re all just pretending we know, convincing ourselves that the lives we’ve lived were intentional, driven by some inner truth.

A thought crosses my mind—maybe purpose isn’t a single, fixed thing. Maybe it’s something we create, little by little, through the choices we make, the people we care for, the values we try to live by. Perhaps it’s less about finding a purpose and more about making one, shaping meaning from the moments and connections we have, even if they don’t add up to some grand, cosmic truth.

The distant sounds grow fainter, the night settling around me. I don’t have the answers; maybe I never will. But as I sit here, with the quiet night stretching out before me, I feel a strange sense of peace. Maybe I don’t need to know my purpose, in any absolute way. Maybe it’s enough to just be here, open to whatever meaning I can build, however small, in the time I have left.