I sat at my kitchen table this morning, coffee cooling beside me, staring at the blank screen in front of me. The cursor blinked back, patient and indifferent, while I tried to summon the words I wasn’t sure I had.
And yet, even here, even in this quiet uncertainty, I am not yet where I want to be.
And yet, I don’t care.
I wake up some mornings with a knot of anxiety, thinking about how far I still have to go. The gap between here and there can feel huge.
Sometimes the distance ahead feels like too much. And yet, I catch a spark of life. I notice, I learn, I laugh. Even when everything is frustrating. Because I know even though it’s hard, God is there with grace abounding.
I used to think reaching my goal would be everything. That once I got there, the anxiety, the restlessness, the second-guessing, would vanish.
I imagined a perfect moment, quiet and triumphant, when I could finally exhale. But the truth is, the process has its own life. Its own pulse. And somehow, I’ve started to love it.
Every step, even the missteps, feel like small victories. I remember the nights I stayed up late, scribbling ideas no one would see for months or at all. I remember the mornings I woke up with a line in my head I couldn’t stop repeating, rushing to jot it down before it disappeared.
Alone in the kitchen, sunlight just beginning to lighten the yard, I feel a strange, fierce joy. The journey is the reward. Not just reaching the mountain top. Because humanity is a story of becoming. Not always about achieving.
Some days, I stumble. I feel the weight of the distance ahead, and doubt sneaks in like an unwelcome visitor. “Am I moving at all?” I ask myself. “Is this even working?” And sometimes, I pause, wondering if maybe the best time of my life isn’t waiting for the destination—but living along the way.
And then I catch myself smiling at nothing. Because in these small, ordinary moments, I realize I already am having the best time of my life. The excitement of discovery, the thrill of trying something new, the quiet satisfaction of showing up consistently. I’m not just waiting for some endpoint. I’m living the moments that matter, right now. The little victories, the quiet discoveries, the small choices I make each day, these are what I carry forward. This is where life happens, not in some distant finish line.
I notice how I’ve started to savor the small victories. Finishing a piece without judging it too harshly. Sharing a thought with someone and actually hearing back. Learning something that shifts how I see my own work. It’s not always dramatic. There are no fireworks. Sometimes it’s a glance, a small nod, a fleeting feeling of pride that passes too quickly—but it’s there, tangible and real.
And the failures? They sting, sure. They push me around a little. But they’re no longer threats. They’re reminders. They show me what doesn’t work. They teach me where I need to look closer, try harder, or simply let go. Even rejection, even mistakes, even long stretches of quiet—they are all part of the journey.
I tell myself often that the destination is not the only thing that matters. The process is alive. And it’s generous in its own way, offering me joy, frustration, curiosity, and discovery at every turn. Some mornings, I almost forget there’s a goal ahead, because the journey itself feels enough.
I am learning to be patient with myself. To enjoy the moments that feel ordinary. To notice the growth that is invisible to anyone else but me. And strangely, that realization has made the goal feel closer, not further away. Because I am growing. I am stretching. I am learning to trust the path.
And it’s not just in my writing. I find myself thinking this way in all areas of life—my relationships, my health, the habits I’m trying to build. The same pattern shows up: persistence matters more than perfection, showing up matters more than instant results. And when I finally notice it, I can breathe a little easier. I can enjoy the moment, even when the outcome is still uncertain.
So yes, I am not yet where I want to be.
But I don’t care.
Because right now, in this messy, beautiful, uncertain present, I am having the best time of my life. And I’ve realized that getting there, whatever “there” is, might just be the smallest part of the story. The real story is the one I’m living while I move toward it.
Something to think about Jesse.....You Wrote This. People are responding.
The real life story of our own hero’s journey is still unfolding.