Life lessons are, perhaps, some of the most annoying things on the planet. I say this as someone who exaggerates for dramatic effect but also as someone who tends to see the world through the lens of reasons (lessons). It’s very much "I experienced this so I could learn that" vibes.
With that in mind, my day-to-day life is a lot of self-examination. My natural inclination is to audit or watch my behavior and the behavior of others from an omniscient perspective. I’ll zoom out or take a bird’s-eye-view of myself or of a situation and try to see the bigger picture to get a sense of why I think the way I think, or feel the way I feel, or do the things I do. As someone who is very heady, it’s very helpful. Though, I must admit that I was a little shook last week during my first session with a new therapist; when I explained this to him, he said, “Well, this is a classic anxiety response.”
Actually, I kind of loved that and it made a lot of sense.
The point though (see! outcome-oriented) is that I’m always on the hunt for the reason. For the why. For the purpose. My natural inclination is to look for a solution or branding or identifier that can be applied to…life. And so, I have recently been trying to go as broad and big with this as I can. I am trying to find my personal purpose statement - an expression of my core motivations, values, and goals. It would serve as a guide, and help to clarify what matters most to me and where to direct my energy and actions. These statements are typically meant to reflect passions, strengths, and aspirations, and can even be used as direction for decision-making and actions.
The idea is that we can introspect and ideate until we find the root reason for our being. We ask ourselves what we are called to emotionally, what we’re naturally inclined to, what we’re proficient in, and what we want intellectually. We ask question after question until we find the thing - ‘Bring people together’ or ‘disrupt patterns’ or ‘create comfortable spaces where people can let their guard down’ or ‘add comedy to everything I touch.’
It will be no surprise to anyone that I am having trouble. The “what is my purpose” question is not only a very difficult question but it is also one of the great existential classics. I mean, Kierkegaard, Sartre, and my babygirl bae bestie bffl Camus basically paved this trail and - shocker - the trail never ends.
(Beep Beep! Tangent) Here is my TL;DR on how the aforementioned dead guys would distill their thoughts on purpose. Scenario - Kierkegaard, Sartre, and Camus are in a talking club and today’s subject is the idea of purpose statements. Kierkegaard would tell us that our purpose is based on faith, believing without proof—a kind of “let’s just YOLO this existential dread.” Sartre would be screaming that we are condemned to be free and must create our own essence through choices (and maybe a vibey playlist to set the mood). And then there’s Camus, who’d probably just shrug and suggest we go roll some boulders up a hill, arguing that the purpose is in ‘the struggle itself’, not in finding one ultimate answer. Still, I like to think that even Camus would’ve enjoyed a margarita after a long day of being, well, Camus.
ANYWAY. A few weeks ago, I was sitting by a crackling fire in the Poconos with Tralen, discussing this very topic of purpose statements. If you’re imagining that this will culminate in a deep, life-affirming moment where we discovered the answers to all our questions… bless your heart. No. No single truth stuck out, despite hours of philosophizing and marshmallow roasting (read: rosé from a box on ice). After that conversation, the only thing I could firmly grasp about myself was that I am competent and good at many things. But maybe not great at them? And probably not committed to them as a singular truth for eternity. And therein lies the problem. If purpose is about honing in on a singular guiding light, where does that leave those of us whose lives are more akin to a disco ball of interests and talents? Dancing around, reflecting, and refracting all kinds of things in a hundred directions. (Yes, my metaphors are all over the place, and I blame the marshmallows.)
Still, we try.
So far, the closest I’ve gotten to my personal purpose is two concepts that, conveniently, sound like they could be the titles of mid-2000’s indie sleaze pop albums: “Translator” and “The Reductionist.”
For starters, I’ve always felt like a translator—not in a bilingual sense—but more as a translator of intentions and emotions. Picture this: two people arguing. Party A is flailing their arms, trying to make a point; Party B looks ready to chew off their own hand in frustration. Enter me, the designated interpreter of subtext and hidden feelings. “What Party A really means is...” I’ll start, peeling back layers and then help these parties to speak the same language. I can do this for myself a lot of the time, but feel like I’m pretty good at it for others too.
And then there's the reductionist part of me. Some people see a problem and dive right in, hammers and duct tape ready and I’m certainly not immune to this approach. But at my core, I’m more the type to pull out a tiny, imaginary scalpel and say, "Hold up, let's dissect this a bit." I like to break complex issues down to their atomic components or raw materials, before piecing them back together. When I’m done, I often find we have a nice little roadmap of how we got here and a clearer picture of where we could go next. This is where the magic happens—taking chaos, reducing it to order, and creating something that feels like it could be figured out. It’s kind of like playing with LEGO but for existential crises. Or like…being a playwright and needing every single line to have a place that is additive and progressive for the overall story. Idk idk, I’m grasping.
Oh. A Third Thing.
And then, actually, there is another possibility: maybe my purpose is to be the project starter. The person who sees the spark of an idea and decides, "You know what? Let's turn this spark into a full-blown fire hazard." In my life, I’ve had a lot of ideas that I simply couldn’t (wouldn’t) wait for someone else to make happen. So, I’ve gone ahead and kicked them off myself. I’ve started dozens upon dozens of plays, screenplays, and productions—each with its own endearingly manic energy and "this time it'll be different" hopefulness. I launched this very newsletter - Gangletown - because, hey, the people need to read my ramblings! Right? RIGHT!? There’s also a podcast or two buried in there somewhere as well, and—most recently—I even opened a business called Tiny Scripted because, apparently, I thought "project starter" wasn’t enough and needed to add "entrepreneur" to my ever-growing list of identities, obligations, eccentricities.
(Plug: please visit www.TinyScripted.com subscribe to our channel on YouTube - www.YouTube.com/TinyScripted)
Let me poke at this a bit. The starter.
To me, there’s something thrilling about taking an idea that’s just floating around in the ether and yanking it down to earth, like a kite caught in a tree. Or Caligula trying to lasso the Moon. To envision something that doesn’t yet exist and then make it real—it’s like a magic trick without the top hat and rabbit or cast of egregiously hot teens and paranormal hijinks you’d find next week at 8 p.m. on The CW.
Honestly, this ‘starter’ thing might be a part of my purpose... Or maybe, just maybe, it's another classic anxiety response. I’ll have to ask my therapist next Thursday at 5 p.m.
But, I hope, there’s more to being the project starter than anxiety-induced action. Maybe there’s a genuine call here to forge new paths, to build bridges where there were none, or at least to light up a few new signs along the way. The world is full of spectators—people who sit on the sidelines, waiting for the right moment, the perfect conditions, or a sign from the universe. Meanwhile, I’m over here with a homemade banner that says, “Go Team Whatever This New Thing Is!” and, if I dare be earnest for a moment, I like that about myself.
Still. It’s not 100. Not 10/10. Not boots. Not brat or demure or anything like that. It still doesn’t feel correct to hold onto this concept as some singular outcome, truth, label or whathaveyou. There is an exception, a change, an-
Oh shit. Oh damn. Oh crap! Did I just have an idea?
Maybe my purpose isn’t about finding the one true answer but about finding the courage to keep creating without knowing where it’ll lead. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe the purpose is in the doing, in the messy beginnings, the false starts, and the moments when you realize your podcast has three listeners and two of them are your mom’s different email accounts…
After all, Camus would think that it’s not about the project itself, but about the process. Right? And I love Camus, so I probably agree. I mean, I have to admit, there is something to the rush of chasing a new idea, the late-night brainstorming sessions, the mid-project existential crises, and the eventual, bittersweet satisfaction when something finally comes together, even if it wasn’t what you imagined.
The life lesson I recall the most is that we’re supposed to be okay with the ebb and flow, with the ephemerality of it all. With that in mind, I could continue starting things - keep throwing spaghetti at the wall and seeing what sticks. And if nothing sticks? Well, at least I’m eating spaghetti…off the wall. Spaghetti is generally good, so I like this idea. And I guess I’ll hold onto it as my primary takeaway from writing all this.
I’ve also learned obsessing over purpose can paralyze. It’s like being at a crossroads with infinite paths, and the fear of picking the “wrong” one can have you standing in the middle, frozen, as if someone hit pause on your brain-remote. You start thinking, “If I’m not innately good at one thing, am I not good at anything?” You spend more time thinking about living than actually living.
So here’s where I’ve landed: I don’t think that having purpose is actually necessary. Sure, it might be helpful, like a GPS in a foreign city, but not having one doesn’t mean you’re wandering aimlessly. I can’t imagine that you’d continue reading down another long tangent so I will spare you, but I imagine that a single life-guiding purpose that we commit to could be just as limiting and frustrating as not having one at all.
What if, instead, we think of purpose as something fluid, evolving, and dynamic—like the seasons or my interest in being publicly vocal about politics? What if purpose isn’t a destination but a rotating cast of single-episode characters on a Law & Order franchise?
Ultimately, despite my natural inclination to seek one elusive answer, I want to imagine that purpose can and perhaps should be ephemeral and ever-changing. It might be “translator” today and “the reductionist” tomorrow, and maybe that’s not only okay but ideal.
Perhaps the most honest purpose statement is simply ‘be curious and open to change, be kind, and don’t take it all too seriously’ or ‘bring extra ice to every party.’
Now, let’s say you want a purpose statement of your very own despite all the existential dread I’ve just laid out for you. Fair enough; I get it. I’m not here to intentionally crush dreams. Here’s a quick “how-to” guide that I got from the internet and zazzed up with my cute word choices that may or may not be helpful, but hey, you’re already here, so let’s give it a shot:
1. Ask Yourself Why, Then Ask Again: It’s like that annoying kid who keeps asking “why?” until you’re ready to scream, but this time, the annoying kid is you. Keep digging deeper. "Why do I like writing?" "Because I like storytelling." "Why do I like storytelling?" "Because it connects people." Why, why, why until you hit bedrock.
2. Combine Your Strengths with What Lights You Up: Think of the things you’re good at (yes, even your oddly specific ability to recite every line from Buffy the Vampire Slayer) and what genuinely makes you feel alive. Somewhere in that Venn diagram is the sweet spot of purpose.
3. Throw in Some Values for Good Measure: If your purpose statement doesn’t align with your core values, it’s like writing a song with no melody. What principles guide you? Is it kindness, curiosity, rebellion, or maybe just a love of comfortable pants? Make sure it’s in there.
4. Keep it Flexible: A good purpose statement should be like a good pair of jeans—stretchy enough to accommodate growth but structured enough to give some direction.
I also like spaghetti and would definitely eat it off the wall.