Emma’s life looked fine from the outside. She had a stable job, a pleasant flat, and friends she saw now and then. But inside, she felt a quiet emptiness, that vague sense that something was missing, though she couldn’t say what.
One rainy Sunday, while browsing a local market, she stopped at a stall selling handmade notebooks. One caught her eye - a pale lavender cover with the words “Begin where you are” stamped in gold. It felt like an invitation. She bought it without much thought, tucked it into her bag, and forgot about it for a week.
Then one evening, after another uninspiring day at work, she found herself holding that notebook. She opened it to the first page and wrote, “I’m not sure what I want anymore.”
It was the most honest thing she’d written in years.
At first, her journal became a place to vent about work frustrations, missed opportunities, and the creeping feeling that she’d outgrown the version of herself she was still pretending to be. But over time, something shifted. She began asking questions instead of making complaints.
– What would I do if I wasn’t afraid of failing?
– What kind of work actually excites me?
– What do I want my days to feel like?
Her writing became a dialogue between her present self and her possible self. Slowly, patterns emerged that showed her she has a recurring desire to help others, work creatively and feel useful again.
Six months later, Emma enrolled on a weekend design course she’d once talked herself out of. She didn’t know where it would lead, but she knew it was a step towards something truer.
When she filled the last page of her lavender notebook, she realised it had become a map - not a perfect one, but one that led her closer to herself. She smiled, ran her fingers over the worn cover, and whispered, “Thank you.”
Sometimes, purpose doesn’t appear in a single moment of revelation.
Sometimes, it’s written quietly, one page at a time.
