In 2013, I found myself diving into the digital depths of a Kindle book dedicated to the "Importance of Purpose." It was a heavy, earnest volume designed to help you find your motivation, make a meaningful contribution to the world, and generally become the best possible version of a human being. It was packed with complex exercises and soul-searching prompts, and I was fully committed to the work.
That evening, I was lying on my bed, digital highlighter at the ready, when I looked over at Mack.
He was lying right next to me, his head resting on the duvet. He didn't have a Kindle, he hadn't read a single page of self-help literature, and he certainly wasn't worried about his "contribution to the world." He just looked across at me with an expression of such total, unconditioned love and adoration that it stopped me mid-sentence.
In that gaze, there were no expectations, no performance reviews, and no five-year plans. To Mack, I wasn't an English teacher or a man struggling with his "alpha" status; I was the center of his universe—a flawless, heroic figure capable of infinite kindness (and the occasional steak scrap).
I looked at the complex exercises on the screen and then back at the dog. A sudden, quiet clarity washed over me.
I realized then that I didn't need a three-hundred-page manual to find my "why." My purpose was sitting right there, wagging its tail. I thought to myself, Maybe it’s actually very simple: I just want to be the person my dog thinks I am.
If I could live up to the version of me that existed in Mack’s eyes—the one who was always worth the wait, always worthy of love, and always the "best human" in the room—then all the other exercises would be redundant.
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