People often ask me how to find their purpose. My answer rarely changes: you don't find purpose... you build it. But that doesn't mean we start from nothing. Most of us already carry clues about what lights us up. I call these clues purpose anchors: the interests, curiosities, and small sparks that quietly pull us toward meaning.
The challenge isn't creating purpose from thin air. The challenge is remembering what those anchors are. In previous posts, I've written about what I call the spaghetti method. The idea is simple: throw a bunch of spaghetti against the wall and see what sticks. Try things. Experiment. Notice what energizes you and what falls flat. Over time, patterns start to emerge.
But there is another way to uncover purpose anchors, and in some ways it is even simpler. Instead of looking forward, you look backward, specifically to childhood.
For many people, childhood represents the closest we ever come to effortless purpose. It's a time before society pushes us toward a specific training program, career path, or set of daily obligations. Before résumés and responsibilities, we are mostly guided by curiosity.
Give a child a free afternoon and watch what happens. They jump on their bikes, shoot basketballs in the driveway, or build elaborate forts in the backyard. Often they become so absorbed in these activities that they lose track of time. Dinner gets forgotten. The outside world fades away.
Psychologists call this state flow — the experience of becoming so deeply engaged in something that time disappears. Goals fade. What matters most is the act of doing.
To me, this state is closely related to what I call little-p purpose. It's purpose as a process rather than a destination. Little-p purpose shows up in moments of engagement and curiosity. It's less about achieving something and more about enjoying the act of doing it.
Unfortunately, as we grow older, this version of purpose often gets replaced by something heavier: big-P Purpose. Big-P Purpose is the idea that we must identify one grand mission that defines our entire life. It must be meaningful, impressive, and world-changing. That expectation can be paralyzing. When we can't immediately identify that singular mission, we start to believe we lack purpose altogether.
Children don't struggle with this problem. They pursue what fascinates them without worrying about whether it will change the world. A kid building a treehouse doesn't stop halfway through to ask if the project aligns with their long-term strategic vision. They build because building feels good.
That simple instinct offers an important clue.
Start With Your Childhood Bedroom
If you're feeling disconnected from purpose, try a small thought experiment. Close your eyes and imagine your childhood bedroom as vividly as you can. Picture the walls, the floor, the desk, and whatever clutter lived there. Then ask yourself a few simple questions. What posters hung on the wall? What drawings or objects littered the desk? What trophies, ribbons, or collections sat on the dresser?
Those items were not random decorations. They were signals of what mattered to you before the outside world started shaping your priorities.
Sometimes we outgrow childhood passions, but more often we simply get too busy to pursue them. Many adults still enjoy horses, pickup football, or skateboarding. They just rarely give themselves permission to do those things anymore.
My Childhood Baseball Card Obsession
For me, the answer lives in baseball cards. Growing up, our family den doubled as the TV room. On summer afternoons I would sit there watching the Chicago Cubs on Channel 9 while opening pack after pack of baseball cards. My goal was always the same: complete the full set for that season.
I spent hours sorting players, studying statistics, and sliding each card carefully into its protective sleeve. To anyone else it probably looked tedious, but to me it was endlessly engaging. Those cards weren't just cardboard. They were stories, puzzles, and tiny pieces of history.
Then life accelerated. School became more demanding. College arrived. Eventually medical training consumed most of my time and attention. Somewhere along the way my baseball card collection ended up boxed in a closet.
I didn't stop loving baseball. I simply stopped making room for it.
Even now, whenever I see an article about vintage baseball cards or catch a clip of an old World Series on social media, my brain lights up. Apparently I may occasionally struggle to identify my sense of purpose — but the Facebook algorithm has already figured it out.
Turning Anchors Into Action
Of course, identifying a purpose anchor doesn't mean the work is done. It simply gives you a place to start. Once you notice the spark, the next step is figuring out how it might fit into your current life. Maybe I start going to a few baseball games each summer. Maybe I buy a pack of cards purely for nostalgia. Maybe I even explore buying and selling cards online.
The specific path doesn't matter nearly as much as the willingness to engage with the interest again.
Purpose rarely arrives fully formed. It tends to grow slowly as we spend more time doing things that naturally capture our attention.
Purpose Doesn't Have to Be Grand
We often assume purpose must be dramatic or life-defining. It should change the world, generate income, or shape our identity for decades. But purpose doesn't need to carry that much weight.
Sometimes it looks like sketching again after years away from art. Sometimes it means joining a recreational soccer league or volunteering at an animal shelter because animals fascinated you as a kid. These activities don't have to be permanent, profitable, or impressive. Their only real requirement is that they help you reconnect with flow, that feeling of becoming absorbed in the moment.
Childhood holds a kind of quiet wisdom. Kids pursue what fascinates them without worrying whether it's practical or productive. They follow curiosity wherever it leads.
As adults we spend decades learning how to succeed, provide, and excel. Those skills matter, and many of them improve with age. But when it comes to joy and purpose, we may have been surprisingly good at it from the start.
Sometimes rediscovering meaning isn't about inventing something new. It's about remembering what once made you forget to come home for dinner.