Real Talk: You Don’t Need a Purpose. You Need a Pulse

I used to think there was something wrong with me because I couldn’t “find my purpose.” Everyone around me had one. Or at least they faked it better. My cousin went vegan and started a blog about saving the bees. My ex became a yoga teacher in Tulum after one ayahuasca trip. And I wrote half-finished novels at 3 AM and stocked insurance brochures at 9.

It felt like I was throwing spaghetti at the wall of existence, hoping something would stick and scream, “This is it, cabrón—your calling!” But all I got were sauce stains and a pile of unmet expectations. And yet, I kept writing. Not because it was my “purpose,” but because it hurt when I didn’t.

That’s the part no one tells you. Purpose is not some sentient force that descends from the heavens to grant your life meaning. It’s not a Tinder match you swipe into. It’s not even a decision. It’s a heartbeat. Sometimes faint, sometimes furious. But always there, beneath the noise.

You don’t find your passion. You bleed into it. You fight with it. You leave it, hate it, come back to it. It’s a toxic relationship that sometimes gives you wings and sometimes gives you ulcers. I didn’t choose writing because it was profitable, prestigious, or even therapeutic. I chose it because when I stopped, life became grayscale. Like kissing someone you don’t love; technically fine, but spiritually hollow.

When I wrote the piece on self-awareness, I realized most people don’t want purpose. They want permission. They want someone to tell them yes, go ahead and do that thing you love but are terrified to suck at. But permission is a trap too. It keeps you waiting. Waiting to feel inspired. Waiting for clarity. Waiting to be someone else.

Truth? You’re never going to feel ready. That’s not how your heartbeat works. Heartbeats don’t ask you for permission to exist. They just do. That’s how you have to approach your art, your life, your whatever. And no, this isn’t some motivational mic-drop. I’m not here to sell you a morning routine or a funnel to find your fire.

I’m just saying maybe your “purpose” is to keep going. To keep writing even when the words taste like cardboard. To keep living even when your job feels like death in a polo shirt. To keep loving even when it feels safer not to. Because maybe it’s not about finding your passion at all. Maybe it’s just about not going numb.

And that’s the most important thing of all.