Purposeless. Until I Write.

Routine, Identity, and Knowing Yourself.

Apr 03, 2026

My sense of purpose can’t be saved by someone else. I stare down the survey question: Over the past two weeks, I have felt a sense of purpose and pause. What a short timeline for the question that has shaken my existence for the past six years. I hesitate around new people. Inevitably in our culture the first question after introduction is, what do you do? What do I do? I’m a writer, I say to commit myself to the craft I still find aspirational. I don’t feel a sense of purpose when I’m not writing. When I do write, I question if I’m good enough for this to be my purpose. Each morning, after the rush of an early workout, breakfast on the table, and the school run, I sit down to a blank page. Some days the cursor flashes on the screen waiting for the keys to push it along. Some days my fingers glide across the keyboard putting out one-thousand words in fifteen minutes. This is my sense of purpose.

I’m a creature of habit. The momentum of writing daily keeps me going. When I stop, I feel it everywhere. Last week it came to a screeching halt. Not from an emergency or unforeseen circumstances. From plans that had been on the calendar for weeks.

Let’s back up. Two weeks ago I attended a presentation on the topic of planning for the future. The speaker began with a provocative phrase: “You can predict the future.” He was speaking to the idea that we know certain things are bound to happen. We can be prepared for them with enough foresight. I know it’ll take an hour to drive to my 1 p.m. appointment. I’ll start getting ready at 11 and leave by 11:45 to arrive at 1 with a buffer for heavy traffic. I can predict that it’ll take me 45 minutes to curl my dry hair, put on the makeup I was going for, and get dressed. I know that my 1 p.m. appointment will begin promptly on time. These are elements of the future I can predict.

I can predict the future when I have a house guest arriving on Friday night. I will be spending the entire day reconciling the Goodwill pile that has taken residence in the guest room. I will be cleaning more than I really need to. I have high standards for myself and the ADHD part of AuDHD (Autism + ADHD) thrives on the rush of doing it all last minute. I knew all of this. Did I prepare? In ways. I started the cleaning the week prior. But I did not write an essay. I thought (without justification) that I’d finish cleaning Thursday and have plenty of time Friday to write, edit, and publish. A four-hour task, minimum. I wasn’t working with my brain. I was assuming I’d become someone else through the sheer fantasy of wanting to be.

That’s not how I actually operate. I should know this by now. However, “should” is a shame word, and shame isn’t useful here. I already know this about myself. Where I failed was neglecting to plan ahead and execute that plan.

New plan: recommit to Morning Pages. It’s an anchor, and when I abandon my anchors I feel it. My therapist reminds me I set these deadlines myself, which means I can adapt them when circumstances require. I’m giving myself grace for missing a week of publishing. What I’m not giving myself a pass on is the planning. There’s a difference between forgiving the outcome and ignoring what caused it. My brain is terribly predictable. I’m learning to take interest in that rather than shamefully wish I could be someone else. Shame wallows. An honest assessment of what went wrong makes a plan for next time.

I thrive on routine. The more I make a goal habitual, the less bandwidth it consumes. Eventually I can run on autopilot. I’ve passed a month of waking early to go to the gym. Not perfectly. Some mornings require more sleep, and the accompanying grace after a rough night. What keeps the habit alive isn’t perfectionism, it’s identity. I’m not someone who wakes at 4 a.m. every single day without exception, or someone who logs no fewer than sixty minutes per session. I’m simply someone who wakes up early to work out. The identity is flexible enough to survive an imperfect week. That’s why it’s lasted.

The planning failure wasn’t really about time management. It was about fantasy. I keep designing systems for a version of myself who doesn’t need systems. Someone who can pivot naturally, absorb disruption, and still preform perfectly. That person isn’t coming. What I have instead is a brain that I’m learning to work with. Morning Pages works because it doesn’t ask me to be someone else. It just asks me to show up and drain whatever’s on my mind. That’s a system I can actually keep.

I am someone who writes daily. When I stop, I need to recommit publicly. Accountability to myself only goes so far. I am a part of a community of writers who continue to show up. I know my brain. I know I’ll get off track again. When I do, I’ll come right back here to recommit to the community. This is what figuring it out looks like to me. Not a clean start, or a clean stop. Waves and ebbs, as my husband always says. Ebbs and flows, as most others say.

I am asked to fill out another survey. Over the past two weeks I have felt a sense of purpose. Yes. Because I wrote.

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