I’m sitting here on my deck sipping coffee on a picture-perfect summer morning. My mind is casually drifting between the work projects I have on the go, the things I need to get done around the house, and the endless worry orbiting around a few of my kids (adult kids, to clarify). I got to reflecting on where I am in this cosmic moment in my life. At 53, I often forget how much experience, learning, and scar tissue gets baked into that number. But in the grand scheme of things, it’s still just a blip.

What the fuck does it all mean? Why am I here? Have I made an impact on the universe? Was I supposed to? What does any of it matter?

If I even tried to suggest that I knew the answers to those questions, I’d be full of shit. But I do have some observations. They’re not revelations, just the messy truths I’ve uncovered wandering around this beautiful blue pebble floating in space. Maybe you’ll see some of yourself in them.

Context matters. Every opinion comes from somewhere. So here’s mine. I’m a 53-year-old white man living in Canada, writing this on an iPad Pro on the deck of my home. That right there probably puts me in the top 5% of global privilege. I am only on this land because my ancestors colonized it. I respectfully acknowledge that I’m writing to you from the traditional, ancestral, and unceded territory of the Lekwungen People of the Songhees and Esquimalt Nations.

Ok. Time to get existential.

“What does it all mean?”

It’s the question that’s both the starting point and the dead end. Broad, open-ended, and absolutely inescapable. It means different things to different people, shaped by culture, circumstance, trauma, triumph, age, and ego.

But if you strip it down to its bones, it’s the question every human has asked at least once. Maybe during heartbreak. Or standing in a hospital room. Or watching the sun rise over a city you don’t call home.

We are sentient beings capable of joy, heartbreak, discovery, grief, compassion, rage. And yet, we have no idea why we’re here or how we ended up on the one rock in the universe that seems to have nailed the life lottery.

So maybe the question isn’t meant to be answered by us.

Maybe it’s not ours to answer at all.

Maybe the answer to “Why am I here?” lives in the people around us. The ones we affect. The ones who cross our path. The ones we lift up, love, disappoint, challenge, and leave better, or worse, than we found them.

We can’t see our own purpose because we’re living it. We’re too close to the brushstrokes to see the whole painting.

It’s like being your own harshest critic. You hate photos of yourself. You nitpick your reflection. You downplay your own value because it doesn’t feel extraordinary.

But it is.

Purpose isn’t always fireworks. Sometimes, it’s a spark.

Your reason for being might be the impact you have on others.

It doesn’t need to be monumental. You don’t have to start a movement, launch a billion-dollar startup, or write a Pulitzer-winning memoir. Maybe your greatest contribution is the way you listen. The way you make people feel seen.

We’ve been conditioned to think success means fame or scale. But I believe the currency of purpose is connection.

Did you kiss your partner before you left the house?
Did you smile at the barista?
Did you give advice to a friend who was struggling?
Open a door for someone with full hands?
Thank the bus driver?

Small things. But not small at all.

Flip the lens.

Think about how it feels to be on the receiving end.

A coworker checks in on your weekend.
An unexpected hug from your daughter.
A genuine compliment from a stranger.
Someone helps you find duct tape in Canadian Tire (real example).

Tiny things. Fleeting things. But they land.

They connect.

They remind you you’re not invisible.

Purpose is in those moments.

We’ve been duped into chasing things that don’t matter. Curated perfection. Clout. Productivity porn. Likes. Trends. Optimization. The “dream life” served to us by an algorithm that doesn’t know our soul.

Technology connected the world, and disconnected us from ourselves.

If you’re wondering why you’re here, start by asking who you’ve helped. Who you’ve loved. Who you’ve made laugh, or cry, or think. Who you’ve sat with in silence. Who you’ve forgiven. Who you’ve shown up for.

Purpose isn’t on your resume. It’s in your wake.

Help without being asked.
Smile without a reason.
Love without needing it returned.

That’s why you’re here.

And maybe that’s enough.