Maybe you want to write a book. You picture holding the finished copy. Seeing your name on the cover. Someone asking what you do and casually saying, I'm a writer. There's only one irritating detail. You don't particularly want to sit alone for hundreds of hours writing the bloody thing.

I think about all the years I spent, in one way or another, waiting to be picked. Waiting to feel ready, which is the same thing wearing a different coat — because "ready" is just permission you're hoping to receive from a future version of yourself, and he's waiting on you. And what I eventually understood is this: the permission slip I kept waiting for did exist. It had existed the whole time. It was sitting right there. It was just blank where the signature goes.

I'm in my forties. This means I have now been an adult for more than two decades. You would think that somewhere during the past two decades I would have figured out what I'm doing. Well, I haven't. So, no. I’m not entirely convinced I’m getting better at this adulting thing. What's slightly more concerning is that I'm beginning to suspect nobody else has either.

Intentionality, it's how I live my life these days. It’s the difference between being at the wheel and being a passenger. Between choosing your direction and simply reacting to whatever comes next.