The Direction You Are From

Over the last few days, I have felt a little off. Not bad. Not sad. Just...blah.

If you've ever experienced this, you know exactly what I mean.

The challenge is that I am a head-centered person. I feel things deeply, but they have to work their way through a very large filter–my brain–before I actually recognize them. Over the years, I've learned that my body often knows something is off long before my heart feels it.

I've experienced this enough times that I now have a process. I start with the basics. Have I been eating well? Drinking enough water? Getting enough sleep? Spending time outside? Exercising? Connecting with friends?

The answers were all yes.

Then I moved to a different set of questions. Is my workload what I want it to be? Am I saying yes to the right clients? Am I working on projects that feel meaningful and life-giving?

Again, yes, yes, yes.

When this "blah" feeling has shown up in the past, I've often realized there is something significant tied to that time of year. So, I opened my calendar and started clicking backward.

One year. Two years. Three years. Four years. I kept going.

And then there it was.

Ten years ago yesterday. That’s the day I resigned from college coaching.

I just sat there staring at my screen. I don't think about that decision every day, but apparently my body does.

Ten years later, some part of me still remembers what it felt like to stand at the edge of something familiar and walk away anyway.

If you've never heard me tell the story, here's the short version.

I had spent nearly twenty years coaching soccer in some capacity, and I loved it. I had a front-row seat to the growth, development, successes, struggles, and lives of hundreds of young women. There were so many moments that shaped me, and many of the relationships from that chapter of my life still matter deeply to me today.

But over a relatively short period of time, I began seeing warning signs about where college athletics was headed. At the same time, I felt an increasing pull toward work that would allow me to impact people beyond the players on my roster.

Eventually, I made a decision that felt both necessary and terrifying.

I quit.

I walked away from a career I loved and started a business from scratch. There was no roadmap, no guaranteed paycheck, no proof of concept, and no clear plan. Just a persistent feeling that my life was saying, "Not this."

The strange thing is that while I was certain I needed to leave, I had very little certainty about where I was going. The decision was stressful, painful, and at times incredibly lonely.

And yet, I knew I had to do it.

Looking back, I'm not surprised that ten years later some of that stress showed up in my body again.

Over the last month, I've been facilitating the Meet the Moment Experience with 37 amazing humans. As people shared their stories, I noticed a theme surfacing.

People were leaving jobs, questioning career paths, reevaluating relationships, and standing in the uncomfortable space between what was and what might be. Many people knew something needed to change.

A few days ago, I went for a long walk. I was thinking about the people in the MTM Experience, and I decided to listen to Noah Gundersen's new album. Normally I listen to podcasts when I walk, but for whatever reason, music felt like the right choice that day.

When I reached the second song, "You & Me," it stopped me in my tracks. Literally.

I had to rewind the song several times because I wasn't sure I had heard the lyric correctly.

He sings:

"Some might say it's kinda reckless,
Some might say it's just plain dumb,
To go out walking with no direction,
Just the direction that you're from."

When I left coaching, I had plenty of well-intentioned people tell me I was being reckless. Many people thought I was making a mistake. Others thought I was being irresponsible. Most of them were worried about me.

At the time, I didn't have the language for what I was feeling. But ten years later, standing on a trail with Noah Gundersen in my earbuds, I think I found some.

"The direction that you're from." That line hit me hard.

I think one of the most difficult parts of transition is our desire for certainty. We want a destination, a plan, a roadmap, and reassurance that everything will work out. We want someone to point at a map and tell us exactly where we're headed.

But I wonder if there are seasons when that kind of certainty simply isn't available.

When I left coaching, I didn't know where I was going. But I knew what no longer fit. I knew the kind of work that energized me. I knew there was something inside me asking for more room. I knew I wanted to build a life rooted in people, growth, connection, and meaningful conversations.

Sometimes clarity isn't found in knowing where you're going. Sometimes clarity is found in being honest about where you can no longer stay.

There are moments in life when the map disappears. Moments when certainty is unavailable, and all you know is that something is ending while something else has not yet begun. In those moments, it can feel like you're wandering.

But maybe you're not. Maybe you're being guided by the direction you're from.

If you find yourself in a season of transition right now, I hope you give yourself a little grace. Maybe you don't have the whole map. Maybe you don't know exactly what comes next. Maybe the future feels foggy. But that doesn't mean you're lost.

You know what has shaped you. You know what has stretched you. You know what no longer fits. You know what matters. And sometimes that is enough direction for today.

Ten years ago, I thought I was walking away from something.

Looking back, I think I was simply following the direction I was from.