Motive Before Reason

I became a graphic artist almost by default.

Picture this: sixth grade, looking out the window, thinking about the meaning of life, what it would be like to be one of the big boys in high school and eventually college.

I knew what I didn't want.

Math was a chore. Science didn't excite me much.

But I enjoyed history, and I felt something steady and alive when I worked with the arts.

So I did what many people do at that age: I scanned the menu of possibilities, ruled out what didn't fit, and landed on architecture. Years later, I walked through the final exhibition of the national university's graduating class in publicity, and something clicked.

This was it. I would become a designer.

It made sense. I liked it. I could make a living from it.

The choice aligned with all the external signs of a good plan.

And for a while, that was enough.

Years later, in the work I do now, I often come back to a simple question, especially when someone feels stuck, lost, or exhausted:

What's keeping you going?

Sometimes the answer comes quickly: my kids, deadlines, my boss, the mortgage, the student loans.

And sometimes the answer doesn't come at all.

There's a pause. A sigh. Eyes drifting downward.

And then something quieter rises to the surface:

"I don't know anymore."

That moment, uncomfortable as it is, feels sacred to me.

Because it's usually the first honest thing that's been said in a long time.

For years, I measured success by what others could see. The portfolio. The clients. The recognition.

And it worked. Until it didn't.

I don't remember the exact moment it shifted. Just that one day, the applause felt hollow. The next rung on the ladder looked exactly like the last.

I had been moving, but I no longer knew where I was going.

That's when I started searching for something else.

I started noticing that the moments that stayed with me had nothing to do with recognition. They were quieter than that.

A conversation that ran long because someone couldn't stop giggling after realizing, almost with embarrassment, that what he wanted most was time.

Not status. Not growth. Just time.

Time to walk his daughter to school before she stopped wanting him there.

The more conversations I had, the more I noticed a pattern.

People rarely know what they came looking for.

What they were really seeking was permission.

Permission to admit that what they had built no longer fit them. Permission to want something quieter. More honest. Permission to rest.

And underneath it all was the same question:

When did I stop listening to myself?

That's where coaching begins.

Not with better goals or a more colorful planner, but with an honest look at what's been driving you, and whether it still makes sense.

Because eventually, people realize they don't just want clarity. They want to want again.

They want to reconnect with something they once felt but couldn't explain. Something true before it became practical. Before it became productive. Before the world told them what should matter.

We forget that motive often comes before reason.

Many of our most meaningful choices begin as a feeling, a memory, a quiet sense that something matters, even if we can't defend it yet.

The world will always offer reasons.

But only you can recognize the thread running through your life from the beginning.

And if lately things feel heavier than they used to, emptier than they should, it doesn't necessarily mean something is wrong.

It may simply mean that something is ready.

Maybe what comes next won't be louder or bigger. Maybe it will just be more honest. More you.

Motive before reason.

Because one gets you moving.

The other keeps you alive.