We grow up believing there is a right path.
Not a path.
The path.
The one that makes sense in hindsight.
The one that proves we were smart.
The one that keeps us safe from regret.
I know two people.
One followed the script perfectly.
Good grades. Stable career. Predictable steps.
Every decision defensible.
From the outside, it looks like success.
From the inside, he feels embalmed.
“I did everything right,” he once told me. “So why does it feel like I missed something?”
The other did the opposite.
Quit jobs. Moved cities. Chased ideas. Burned bridges.
Every choice looked reckless.
From the outside, it looks chaotic.
From the inside, she feels exhausted.
“I followed what felt true,” she said. “So why do I still feel lost?”
Same age.
Same intelligence.
Same hunger for meaning.
Opposite routes.
Same ache.
We talk about life as if it were a maze with a hidden correct exit.
Miss it, and you’re condemned.
Find it, and everything aligns.
But real life doesn’t work like that.
There is no master map.
No bird’s-eye view where your choices suddenly become obvious.
Only movement. Consequence. Revision.
The idea of “the right path” is comforting because it promises retroactive coherence.
It says: one day this will all make sense.
So we search for it.
In careers.
In philosophies.
In routines.
In other people’s lives.
We mistake certainty for truth.
We borrow narratives because they feel safer than ambiguity.
But safety isn’t direction.
The script-follower and the risk-taker are both living inside the same human condition:
You choose without guarantees.
You act without proof.
You only learn what a path was after you’ve walked it.
Regret doesn’t mean you chose wrong.
It means you’re conscious.
Doubt doesn’t mean you failed.
It means you’re awake.
The problem isn’t that we choose badly.
It’s that we expect a choice to deliver absolution.
There is no path that exempts you from confusion.
No route that spares you from loss.
No sequence of decisions that makes you immune to “what if.”
There is only the work of staying honest with where you are.
Not glamorous.
Not reassuring.
Not something you can screenshot.
Just the quiet practice of asking:
“What is actually mine to do next?”
Not forever.
Not perfectly.
Just next.
-Jairo
