Everything Deserves a Little Fire

I recently came across a description of creative energy that stopped me in my tracks. It described the beginning of a journey not as one blazing fire, but as many small flames burning side by side. The question it posed was simple: Which one will find tinder?

I haven’t stopped thinking about that question.

Most of us spend a tremendous amount of time trying to predict the future. We want to know which idea will succeed, which relationship will last, which opportunity is worth pursuing, and which risk will pay off. We want certainty before we invest our time, energy, money, or hearts. We want guarantees that our efforts will matter.

The problem is that life rarely provides those guarantees.

When I look back at the most important chapters of my life, very few of them arrived with a sign announcing their significance. The moments that shaped me most often looked ordinary when they began. A conversation. A class. A friendship. A decision. An idea. A curiosity that refused to leave me alone.

At the time, I had no way of knowing which experiences would become turning points and which would simply become memories.

I think many of us approach our dreams the same way. We expect ourselves to know, in advance, which idea deserves our attention. We ask ourselves whether a project will make money, whether a business will succeed, whether a book will sell, whether a new direction is worth pursuing. We treat our ideas as though they are standing before a panel of judges, waiting to be approved before they are allowed to exist.

I’ve certainly done this. More times than I can count.

The irony is that some of the most meaningful things in my life began without a clear destination. They began because I was curious. They began because something interested me. They began because I felt pulled toward them without being able to explain exactly why.

When I think about what inspires me, it isn’t success. It isn’t recognition. It isn’t achievement.

What inspires me is transformation.

I am fascinated by the moment a person realizes they are capable of more than they believed. I am inspired by people who rebuild after loss, heartbreak, illness, disappointment, or failure. I am drawn to stories about reinvention because I know firsthand how disorienting it can feel when life stops looking the way you thought it would.

Again and again, I find myself returning to the same question: What becomes possible when we stop defining ourselves by what has happened to us and start imagining what we might become?

That question appears everywhere in my life, even when the projects themselves seem unrelated.

It appears in the books I am writing.

It appears in the classes I teach.

It appears in the businesses and brands that I‘m building.

It appears in the courses, workshops, and experiences I dream about creating.

For a long time, I looked at these interests as separate pursuits competing for my attention. I assumed that eventually I would need to choose one. Isn’t that what we’re told? Find your passion. Pick a lane. Focus.

The older I get, the less convinced I am that this advice applies to everyone.

Some people are called toward a single pursuit and devote their lives to mastering it. There is something beautiful about that.

Others seem to move through the world collecting ideas, experiences, and interests that eventually weave themselves together into something larger. They are writers who become teachers. Teachers who become entrepreneurs. Entrepreneurs who become advocates. People whose lives make sense not because they followed a straight line, but because they followed their curiosity.

I have spent years trying to determine which of my interests was the “real” one. The one that justified all the others. The one that would eventually emerge as my true purpose.

Lately, I’ve begun to wonder if that question is flawed from the beginning.

What if the purpose isn’t found in the vehicle?

What if writing isn’t the purpose?

What if teaching isn’t the purpose?

What if entrepreneurship isn’t the purpose?

What if those are simply different expressions of the same underlying desire?

If someone asked me what I would create if nothing stood in my way, I wouldn’t describe a single project. I would describe an ecosystem. I would describe books, courses, workshops, retreats, businesses, and communities designed to help people grow into fuller versions of themselves. I would describe opportunities for learning, healing, connection, and transformation.

The form changes depending on the need.

The intention remains the same.

Recognizing that has changed the way I think about my ideas.

I no longer believe that every spark needs to justify itself immediately. I no longer believe that every interest must prove it can become a career before it deserves my attention. I no longer believe that I need to know exactly where something is going before I allow myself to explore it.

Some ideas become businesses.

Some become books.

Some become passions that remain passions.

Some teach us lessons we could not have learned any other way.

The truth is that we usually don’t know which is which in the beginning.

We find out by participating.

We find out by staying curious.

We find out by giving an idea enough attention to reveal what it wants to become.

Perhaps that is why the image of those small flames has stayed with me. Not because I need to know which one will burn brightest, but because I am finally beginning to accept that I don’t have to know.

I don’t need certainty before I begin.

I don’t need proof before I care.

I don’t need a guarantee before I invest myself in something meaningful.

I only need the willingness to explore what calls to me and the patience to see where it leads.

Some flames will grow.

Some will fade.

Some will illuminate paths I never would have found otherwise.

The point isn’t predicting the outcome.

The point is tending the possibilities long enough to discover what they are capable of becoming.

Everything deserves a little fire.

Not because everything will become something extraordinary, but because we have no way of knowing what might be if we never give it the chance.