For a long time, I thought my mission had a name. Minister. Therapist. Academic. Writer. Builder of things that mattered. Each of those carried its own sense of purpose, its own weight. And for a while, that was enough.
But missions have a way of changing shape. They don’t always announce themselves when they arrive, and they don’t always leave cleanly when they go. Somewhere along the line, I stopped believing that my mission was a role or a title. I don’t think it ever was.
If I have a mission now, it’s quieter and harder to define. It’s to help people see themselves more clearly — not as they wish to be, but as they are. To bring light to places where shame, grief, or fear have convinced someone they are alone or broken beyond repair. I’ve done that in therapy rooms, in classrooms, and now, I try to do it on the page.
My mission isn’t to save anyone. I learned long ago that salvation doesn’t work that way. It’s to sit with people in the dark long enough that the dark loses some of its power. To tell stories that don’t flinch from pain but refuse to let it have the final word. To make space for recognition — that moment when someone reads a line and thinks, someone else has been here too.
Enlightenment sounds lofty, but I don’t mean it in a grand sense. I mean small awakenings. A softened heart. A question asked instead of an answer imposed. A moment of catharsis that leaves a person steadier than they were before.
I don’t know if missions are meant to be permanent. Maybe they’re seasonal, like everything else that matters. For now, mine feels simple: to pay attention, to be honest, and to use whatever voice I have to lessen the loneliness of the world, even if only by a fraction.
If that’s not a mission, I don’t know what is.
Very nice! Bravo