The Beauty of Not Knowing What’s Next

The question I get asked most often as of late (besides “Where are you from?”) is this: What’s next? Where will you go after this?

Currently working at a guest ranch in the middle of Idaho, I meet new people every day. Our guests are curious about our lives, knowing this is a seasonal job with an end date. Some of my younger coworkers will go back to university to finish up degrees, others having just graduated will seek their first career job, and others will continue on to more seasonal jobs. Where will I go?

The truth? I have zero idea.

More truth? Not knowing gives me peace.

For nearly my whole life, I’ve had a plan. Certainly, it’s changed from time to time. I didn’t become the elementary school teacher I had planned to—or get married immediately after college and have those two children. But I was always looking to the future, setting my next path.  I became the person who when setting her heart on something, nothing stood in her way.

For the past 10 years, I’ve worked in my career field as a marketing and communications professional for nonprofits. I ran a jewelry business on the side and called it my creative outlet. I was active in my community, always working toward the next goal. How do you do it, people always asked me. And I smiled and said I didn’t know. I met a man and dreamed big dreams; I bought a house and put big dreams into that house. I got married, and we made plans together.

Then, I was hit with a hard truth to swallow: we aren’t as in control of our lives as we like to pretend we are.

Covid greeted us all with open arms. The world shut down. My husband shut down. My life was thrown into turmoil, everything spiraling out that delicate control I thought I held. I unraveled, not knowing what plan, what control to hang onto. And, then, I learned to let it go. Let go of this perfect image I held for myself and my life. I allowed myself to finally feel all the pain I had been hiding, both from my family and friends and from myself. I made the healthiest choice I could for myself and left my marriage. I learned to surrender to what is. 

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t graceful. And it wasn’t perfect.

But I learned that nothing really is, and it’s okay to be vulnerable, because in our suffering is where our real learning and growing begins.

Over the past year, I focused on a new plan: to surrender and wander aimlessly for a while. The greatest plan of all: a plan that would allow me to not plan. Of course this took months of fixing up my house to sell, parting with 90% of my belongings, paying off my debt, leaving my job, dehydrating meals, fixing up my RAV4 to live out of, and experiencing the last of Michigan.

But all of it was for this moment right now: I’m sitting with my laptop in a hammock by a beautiful lake (my current favorite hang) not even wondering what’s on the horizon. Not making a plan for my evening, but instead enjoying the gentle breeze, the view of the mountains in the background. Not even really sure what my shifts for work are tomorrow, because tomorrow is for tomorrow.

For the first time in my life, I have no idea what’s next, and it’s exhilarating. To quote one of my favorite authors from high school, “Where we're standing right now, in the ruins in the dark, what we build could be anything.”

I’m not sure what exactly I’m building, but I know I’ve laid the foundation. So what’s next? I don’t know, and I don’t need to.

At some point I’ll make a plan for the next step, but that’s a month away. What I know right now is that I’m where I’m meant to be for now. I’m breathing fresh air into my lungs, rooting my bare feet in the soil, and surrendering to the present moment. Trusting—no, knowing—that whatever is next will come when it’s ready, and it, too, will be magic.