What Was I Made For?

I spend way too much time trying to come up with the perfect answer to the question — What is my purpose? And then, because that question feels a little too esoteric, I reframe it: What was I made for?

I’ve always believed — truly, deeply, without irony — that we are made in the image and likeness of God. And I don’t mean that in a “look at me, divine and glowing” sort of way. I mean it in the sense that there’s something sacred about being human, something intentional. Every major faith — Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Hinduism — whispers this same truth: we are made with meaning baked right in.

My challenge has always been to figure out what makes me me and then to use that for something bigger than myself. In simplest terms: to please God. Which sounds lofty, but really it’s about leaning into the quirks, talents, and odd little passions that make me one of a kind — and using them for good.

Of course, this is much easier to say than to live. Free will, for one thing, is a mixed blessing. God may have made me for one thing, but I’m perfectly capable of veering off in another direction, usually out of stubbornness or fear or because someone had a great idea that turned out to be half baked. I get in my own way more often than I care to admit.

I sometimes think of children — how their egos haven’t yet learned to edit their wonder. Every new thing is an Aha! moment: a leaf, a shadow, a dog that blinks. They’re not judging, they’re experiencing. Somewhere along the way, we lose that. We’re told how to see, how to think, how to be. And suddenly the world is less “Wow” and more “Whatever.”

So when I circle back to the question of purpose, I try to strip it down to the basics: What am I good at? What do I love? Where do I bring something positive into the room? The answers — however humble — are the fingerprints of why I’m here, the way I reflect that divine likeness, the way I express love in this wildly imperfect world.