How I Accidentally Discovered My Purpose

I was halfway through a mediocre Parisian date when it hit me: I had no idea what I wanted from life. The espresso was tepid, the conversation lukewarm, and his opinions about modern art were…well, let’s just say I started mentally drafting my “this isn’t working out” text before the crème brûlée arrived. But, as he launched into a passionate defense of breadless sandwiches (yes, apparently that's a thing), I found myself staring at the gold filigree on my coffee cup, wondering how I’d sidestepped any real sense of direction for years. It wasn’t about him; it was about me. I’d been stuck in the “figuring it out” phase of life. Or perhaps, avoiding it altogether.

Flash-forward a few months later, and I found my purpose in the unlikeliest of places: halfway up a Turkish hillside in a rickety taxi that smelled faintly of mint tea and regret. Let me explain.

A Taxi Ride Through Destiny (and Bad Suspension)

I was in Istanbul for research, chasing the remnants of Ottoman-era love poetry for my PhD. This sounds romantic, right? In theory, yes. In practice, I was exhausted, lost most of the time, and deeply regretting my decision to wear heeled boots. My father had always said, “Never travel with impractical shoes,” but did I listen? Reader, I did not.

It was on one of these misadventurous days that I hailed a taxi to escape the drizzle and the creeping desperation of data collection gone wrong. The driver, a man in his sixties with an oud propped on the passenger seat, struck up a conversation.

“You look like you’ve been wandering in circles,” he said in Turkish, smiling knowingly. I admitted he was probably right.

“Good. Circles are where the truth hides,” he quipped.

And that’s when it began. For the next half hour, as the taxi wheezed uphill through winding streets, he told me about his life—his great love, whom he met at a spice market; the heartbreak of losing her; and his comfort in music, which he’d only picked up in his fifties. He spoke with the kind of clarity that made me lean forward, clutching the torn leather seat as if I, too, could absorb some of this wisdom by proxy.

“You don’t find your purpose; you live, and it finds you. But only if you’re paying attention,” he said, gesturing dramatically, nearly sideswiping a lamppost in the process.

At the time, I chuckled politely, assuming he was offering me some quaint, folkloric advice you might find written on a fortune cookie. It wasn’t until later that I realized how profoundly right he was.

When the Doors Close, Pay Attention to the Windows

Like many people, I grew up thinking “purpose” was something you hunted down with a five-point plan and a bulletproof resume. And honestly, that’s how I'd approached my twenties: moving countries, gaining degrees, and diving into work that felt meaningful on paper but left me restless at night. Purpose became this abstract, almost mythical goal always just out of reach, like the Pot of Gold Emoji of adulthood.

But the truth is, purpose doesn’t announce itself with flashing lights and triumphant horns. It shows up in subtle, inconvenient ways. It shows up when you’re stuck in a taxi and too broke to tip properly. It shows up when the relationships you thought would define you…don’t. It even shows up when you realize the path you’ve been on was never really yours to begin with.

For me, it started earlier than I realized. Writing had always been a secret confidant of sorts—a space where I could weigh questions about identity and belonging before voicing them out loud. But it had also been a hobby, not a career. It wasn’t “serious enough.” When I traveled, I dutifully collected facts for my research, while the untold stories of people—their daily struggles, their cultural quirks, their quiet acts of subversion—kept tugging at me. I’d hoard snippets of overheard conversations like precious relics, jotting them down in my notebook as though they held more weight than the archives.

It took a chance chat with an oud-playing taxi driver to make me confront what I’d been avoiding for years. My purpose wasn’t cataloging the past—it was telling stories in the present.

Embracing the Messy Middle

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: finding your purpose is rarely glamorous. It’s messy, nonlinear, and involves no small amount of detours. Pop culture often sells us this slick, cinematic version of epiphany—a single moment of clarity where the skies part, the music swells, and suddenly, all the puzzle pieces click into place. But in reality? Your puzzle might be missing half the pieces, and the ones you do have probably came from five different boxes.

Here’s what I wish someone had told me earlier:

  • Notice What Sparks Joy (and Jealousy)
    Sometimes envy is a breadcrumb pointing you toward your own yearnings. If someone’s accomplishments make you think, “Why not me?” ask yourself if that’s a path you secretly want to explore. No judgment zone here.

  • Listen to What People Compliment About You—Even Casually
    For me, it was the way people responded to my stories. “You should do something with this,” they’d say, and I’d brush it off. Now, I know better. Don’t ignore repeated clues from the universe.

  • Stop Waiting for Perfect Conditions
    It’s tempting to think, I’ll pursue my dreams when I have more savings, more experience, more certainty. Spoiler alert: Certainty is a unicorn—mythical and entirely overrated. Start where you are, even if it’s with shaky steps.

  • Pay Attention to Accidental Themes in Your Life
    What subjects, activities, or questions do you keep coming back to, over and over? These are the threads that might weave into something bigger.

Full Circle: Writing With Purpose

I left Istanbul feeling clearer, though not exactly “fixed.” (Spoiler: No one is ever truly fixed—and that’s okay.) I quit chasing roles that sounded impressive and gave writing the weight it deserved. Slowly, surprisingly, opportunities began falling into place. I started telling the stories that mattered, to me and to others, and in doing so, I realized something: finding purpose isn’t about reinventing yourself. It’s about recognizing the passions and talents you already have and giving them the space to thrive.

So no, I didn’t find my purpose on some mountaintop or with a five-year plan. I found it in a taxi, surrounded by the smell of rain-soaked leather seats and the strains of an oud melody. I found it in messy drafts and coffee-stained notebooks. And I find it again every time I sit down to write, reminding myself that purpose isn’t a destination. It’s the way you choose to show up every day.

If you’re feeling lost, don’t panic. Maybe you’re just in the middle of your own winding taxi ride. Lean into the detours, notice the patterns, and trust that you’ll arrive exactly where you’re meant to be—even if it’s a little later than planned.