Finding Your Purpose: Is that what Really Matters?
For the last four years my role as an engineer allowed me, by society’s metrics and standards, to be successful. I was living well above the poverty line, in a vibrant city, driving a luxury vehicle, and could hop on a plane and visit friends or family without much thought. To some, this may seem ideal. Except… it wasn’t. I felt stuck. Unenthused. Like I would drop a fake smile at the end of the day and sink into my couch looking for the best way to numb everything until I did it all over again the following morning. Movies, food, a redeye flight for a whirlwind adventure all before rushing back to the grind.
In college I never felt particularly compelled towards one major or another. There was the creative path. The safe path. And the reckless path. I’ll expand on this in another post but for now, we can just fast forward to me choosing engineering.
It was an esteemed route and a quick 4 years to a solid paycheck — one with relative stability in the field. Could I sell myself on the importance and contribution that engineering made in the real world? Absolutely. But was I intrinsically motivated by determining the best radius for a curve on a highway, or finding a new configuration that affected the fewest number of utility lines? Nope.
One particularly frustrating day at the office left me speed-walking through the streets of downtown to get home. I slammed my door shut, slid over the deadbolt, and made a beeline for my bed. I flopped on my mattress and muffled sobs escaped into my pillow. What’s wrong with me, I wondered? This was the life 15 year old me dreamed of.
I flipped over and stared up at my ceiling. Montages of my life danced across the blank white screen. The soccer player leaving her heart on the field. The percussionist zoned in on all four limbs moving independently. The free spirit jumping fences and running through the streets of the neighborhood playing tag. Who had I become? The montage shifted to my crooked posture, heavy sighs escaping while I snapped lines representing grass and pavement edges in the adult version of Kid Pix.
What’s wrong with you? I asked myself again. This time out loud. I sat up and looked myself in the eye in a floor to ceiling mirror. I felt my fists clench and brow furrow, the answer bubbling up inside me, but fear of what uttering the truth out loud would mean keeping the words choked in the back of my throat.
A few more tense moments passed while I mustered the strength to say what needed to be said until finally, I whispered, “I’m successful – but unfulfilled.” Fat crocodile tears welled up and one escaped down my cheek. “I worked my ass off to get to this point, and I’m miserable”.
The rest of the evening was a blur as I exhausted myself with tears and tormenting thoughts. Thankfully the next day was the start of the weekend so I didn’t have to face the world just yet. I awoke with a puffy face, raw throat, and a nervous feeling in my gut. Ok now what? Too soon.
I watched the usual tear-jerker film line up and wallowed in self pity for the rest of the weekend. When it was time to pick myself up by the bootstraps, as the saying goes, it felt like looking at a blank piece of paper when you have a 10 page report due the next day.
What’s the way to get rid of that emptiness while I’m at work? Is purpose the answer? What the hell is my purpose? This question brought me to the first set of cross roads.
Should work and purpose exist in the same plane?
8 hours a day, 5 days a week, for the next 40 years. Some lucky souls are able to be content accepting a job that is mundane but affords them a lifestyle they desire, where they seek out fulfillment in other areas of their life. But for me, that’s too much time spent being uninspired. Bored. Restless.
Maybe the bare minimum is working for a company with a compelling purpose — one that I can fall back on in moments where I’m struggling with motivation. Why does what I’m doing matter? What difference am I making? Why is what we’re trying to achieve significant? This is progress.
Some may say it’s naive to think that the work you’re doing actually matters at all. We’re all just a cog in the wheel, right? I’d like to think otherwise. I know there are individuals and companies out there who are doing good in the world and making real change. Yes, profit margins matter and a business has to be sustainable, but they’re actually pushing boundaries and paving the way for people behind them to create lasting change in their industry.
This led me to the next set of crossroads.
If it’s change I’m after, not purpose, how do I know where I should focus my efforts? I started writing random scribbles of jobs or topics I’ve always been interested in. Some, I recognized, should stay firmly in the hobby category, but others, like social issues, the power of persuasion, equal opportunities, and effective management and leadership got me fired up.
This felt aligned with who I actually am, and not who I was trying to be. I’ve always been an athlete and a competitor. I’ve always felt enraged by injustices and inequities. I’ve desperately looked for a mentor in my life and love seeing the effects and power of thoughtful leadership. This feels authentic and lasting, something core to who I am that can be translated across numerous industries.
I don’t have all the answers and I won't pretend to. All I know is that it was time to listen to my gut and make a change instead of lying down and accepting a middling fate.
As I wrote this, I kept on thinking about a poem we read in my 11th grade english class called The Unknown Citizen by W. H. Auden. It told the story of a man who followed the formula prescribed to him to have a good life but died as nothing more than a number. He dutifully served the social system, but in doing so, gave up his individuality, his freedom, his happiness. “Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:” writes Auden. “Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard”.
W. H. Auden - 1907-1973
(To JS/07 M 378
This Marble Monument
Is Erected by the State)
He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be
One against whom there was no official complaint,
And all the reports on his conduct agree
That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a saint,
For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.
Except for the War till the day he retired
He worked in a factory and never got fired,
But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.
Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views,
For his Union reports that he paid his dues,
(Our report on his Union shows it was sound)
And our Social Psychology workers found
That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.
The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day
And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.
Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,
And his Health-card shows he was once in hospital but left it cured.
Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare
He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan
And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,
A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.
Our researchers into Public Opinion are content
That he held the proper opinions for the time of year;
When there was peace, he was for peace: when there was war, he went.
He was married and added five children to the population,
Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation.
And our teachers report that he never interfered with their education.
Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:
Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.