The Accident That Changed the Plan
I’ve always been a planner. Maybe it’s the Type-A firstborn energy or the countless group projects in college that taught me the virtues of color-coded Google Docs. Either way, I had my life neatly mapped out by the time I graduated grad school. There was a five-year plan (complete with subheadings and SMART goals), an emergency backup plan, and even a whimsical “what if everything goes miraculously right” plan.
Spoiler: life does not care about your plans.
The “accident” in this story wasn’t a dramatic Hollywood car crash or a quirky rom-com meet-cute (though if a young Colin Firth had spilled coffee on me in a bookstore, I wouldn’t be mad). Instead, it was a good old-fashioned scheduling mix-up. And while I’d love to take credit for the poetic elegance of this defining life moment, it was 100% an oops I wasn’t prepared for.
The Mix-Up That Mattered
It started with an email from an acquaintance—an old college peer who messaged me about volunteering for an event that “needed extra hands.” She framed it casually, but I soon realized it was a prelude to finding myself standing in a dilapidated middle school gym full of middle schoolers. I was unwittingly signed up to “help coordinate” a community art workshop. While phrases like community engagement and arts education didn’t sound too far off from what I usually said yes to, I had exactly zero preparation to lead a room full of tweens comparing slime recipes while intermittently gluing feathers to their desks.
To be clear: I’d been under the impression that I was showing up to fill coffee cups and tear ticket stubs. Talk about an expectations adjustment.
But as I stood there amidst the chaos—watching a group of kids attempt to turn acrylic paint into some questionable version of Van Gogh’s Starry Night while another table simultaneously debated whether Taylor Swift’s Folklore or Midnights deserved more Grammy wins—it hit me: I was having an absolute blast.
A Little Chaos, A Lot of Joy
For context, I’ve always cared deeply about service and community. Growing up, the Sinclair dinner table came with a built-in moral compass. Conversations weren’t about what everyone did, but rather, why they did it. Success? Only if it aligned with serving others. Fulfillment? That lived in showing up for people, no matter how messy or complicated things got. But despite all that early guidance, I was spinning my wheels on how to put that ethos into action. I knew big picture terms—social equity, community empowerment—but what did that look like when the rubber hit the road?
Or in this case, when the paintbrush hit the styrofoam plate of glitter.
That afternoon, I watched as kids found something powerful in themselves through those messy crafts. Take Lily, for example—a shy sixth grader who didn’t speak much but lit up when I complimented her abstract collage, explaining it reflected her “stress points” at home. Or Jordan, who adamantly refused to do the project “the right way” but ended up creating something completely original and unexpectedly beautiful—with soda bottle caps, no less.
The art—imperfect, chaotic, and one-of-a-kind—was only half the story. The real masterpiece was how these conversations unfolded: raw, unscripted, and filled with the kind of honesty you don’t often get from adults. Rebellion morphed into vulnerability. Quiet became bold. And as I leaned over yet another glitter-soaked table, I realized I’d accidentally landed on my thing.
Finding Purpose Is Less “Aha” and More “Uh, Okay?”
I didn’t walk out of that gym knowing I’d just discovered my North Star. At first, I chalked it up to a fun, albeit exhausting, afternoon and figured I’d go back to the five-year-plan hustle.
But something about that afternoon stuck.
Maybe it was the way those kids had so effortlessly broken through the world’s noise and reminded me what connection feels like: sometimes awkward, often messy, but always genuine if you let it happen. Or maybe it was how, for once, I didn’t care if I looked a little ridiculous holding a glue gun upside down while quoting Parks and Rec to make a teenager laugh.
Whatever it was, I couldn’t shake it. So I leaned into it.
Over the next few months, I poured myself into similar workshops—more volunteering, more art stuff, more opportunities to listen as kids told their stories and unpacked their complicated little worlds. It wasn’t that their problems were always grand or earth-shattering; it was that they were valid. And what I did in those spaces—creating room, giving permission for messiness—wasn’t about “solving” anything. It was about showing up.
Lessons in Showing Up (For Them, and Yourself)
Here’s the DIY kit I didn’t realize I was assembling until much later:
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Listen, Even When You Feel Useless
Sometimes, you can’t fix the problem—but listening? That’s where magic lives. Whether it’s a kid confessing she feels invisible at home or your best friend agonizing over a breakup, listening validates. You don’t need answers; you just need ears. -
Embrace Your Inner Hot Mess
We’re fed the lie that success comes from having it all together. Nah, real growth comes from being knee-deep in glitter and feathers, figuring things out as you go. Relationships, life purposes, paint-by-number murals—you’re allowed to be messy. -
Be the Beginner
Purpose isn’t something you perfect from day one. You show up, you try things, you fail nobly—and you keep showing up. Maybe you won’t glue turkey feathers to construction paper for the rest of your life, but that’s okay. Read the room of your interests and adjust as needed. -
Joy Can Be Loud (And Glittery)
Not everything that fills you up has to look profound or polished. Sometimes joy sneaks in quietly while you laugh at a poorly drawn stick llama. Stay alert; it’s closer than you think.
Piecing It All Together
Now, do I still have a life plan? Sure—old habits die hard. But these days, it’s loose, flexible, and less about “achieving” and more about “being.” I still run a nonprofit. I still write, advocate, and wander Austin’s funky art scene. But my definition of purpose has shifted—and surprise, it has more middle schoolers in it than I ever planned.
If you’re like me and you’re waiting for purpose to hit you over the head with some grand Eureka moment…stop. Start smaller. Purpose, as it turns out, isn’t something you set out to find. It’s sneaky—it appears when you least expect it, often wearing goofy disguises like glitter glue and paint-smeared sneakers.
And if you have no idea where to start? Maybe just say yes to the next email that asks you to show up. Even if it’s just to refill coffee cups. You never know where the detour might take you.
