The Myth of the Perfect Plan: How I Learned to trust the Unseen Path
From quarter-life crisis to creative breakthrough- why letting go of rigid plans led to to true success
I used to be a planner. I mapped out my life in detailed steps—first this, then that, then the next logical move. But I was also a people-pleaser, and these two truths often clashed. My carefully laid plans were not always my own; they bent under the weight of expectations, both external and internal.
But was I really a planner, or was I just someone who put ideas into the universe and prayed they would come to fruition?
The Quarterlife Reckoning
Twenty-five. Quarterlife. When I turned twenty-five in 1990, my life was a mess. I was a mess. On paper, I was an accomplished young woman: a college graduate, a founding member of Sigma Tau Delta, editor of the school literary magazine, and president of the Delta Upsilon chapter of Alpha Sigma Alpha. I had completed an internship at The San Antonio Current and even owned a small business franchise, all while working to support myself through school.
Then, in 1989, everything crumbled. The economic crash in Texas, the Savings & Loan debacle—my business failed. I went back to working in retail. I passed up an opportunity with Alpha Sigma Alpha. I started graduate school and withdrew at midterm, financially depleted and drowning in debt.
At twenty-five, I considered myself a failure. My goal had been to be a published writer by twenty-five, and technically, I was. But I wasn’t a novelist or a short-story writer. I had quit graduate school. I ignored the encouragement of the grizzled old reporter at The Current because I assumed he was just being kind, or worse, had ulterior motives. I didn’t apply to Yale, Boston University, or Oxford because of debt, self-doubt, and a deep-seated fear of stepping off the narrow path I had been taught to follow.
The Myth of the Narrow Path
Growing up in Colorado, I knew the dangers of straying from a carved trail—you could get lost. Church reinforced this idea: the path to righteousness was rigid, narrow. One misstep could be catastrophic unless you continuously sought forgiveness. Not everyone absorbed faith in that way, but I did. My dreams, my desires—they seemed to lead me away from the prescribed route.
I didn’t yet understand that I could create my own path. That faith could be fluid. That success was not a singular road but an intricate, winding journey. I had yet to grasp that God—or the universe, or whatever force we believe in—was far more expansive than human comprehension. And that perhaps our purpose was not to conform to someone else’s roadmap but to chart our own.
Marketing, Moon Calendars, and the Illusion of Knowing
By twenty-six, I had left Texas for Denver, taking a job at Coopers & Lybrand before settling into marketing at a small religious publishing company—writing-adjacent but not writing. Outwardly, I was fine. Inside, I was unraveling.
Marketing fascinated me, though. I wrote plans, analyzed sales projections, and chased the elusive formula for success. What made some products sell while others flopped? Could data predict outcomes? Wasn’t there some expert—a workshop leader, a professor, a marketing guru—who knew the answers?
The truth? No one knows. You can plan meticulously, but unforeseen variables—war, stock market crashes, fires, strikes—can upend everything. The marketing director once gave me a moon calendar as a joke. When people asked how we predicted a 20% sales increase, we laughed and said we used the moon. In reality, we used tools, research, and a bit of gut instinct. But in that job, I learned the most valuable lesson of all:
Nobody knows what they’re doing. We’re all just figuring it out as we go.
And then a consultant came in and shattered another illusion:
Nobody is coming to save you. Nobody cares.
At first, it sounded harsh. But it was liberating. Plans don’t always work. No one will swoop in to fix things. If you fall, you must pick yourself up. And for a long time, I abandoned planning altogether.
Life Unscripted
At twenty-six, I met the man I would marry. I got pregnant. He nearly died from cerebral edema, trapped in a railroad tunnel with ten locomotives. We spent a decade in legal battles with the railroad. We had a second child. I suffered a mild brain injury in a car accident. I was fired. I couldn’t write. I had to relearn how to write.
So I taught writing. I wrote. I became an award-winning art writer. I moved to a small town in southwest Colorado and tried to build a writing career. I dreamed of graduate school, hoping it would legitimize me as a writer, give me the imprimatur I craved.
But I’ve come to realize something: nobody else can grant me legitimacy. I am a writer because I write. Because I publish. Because I have the awards, the bylines, the body of work. No degree or title will change that.
The Evolution of Planning
We’re taught that goals should be SMART—Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant, Time-bound. I used to make vision boards filled with grand dreams: a multimillion-dollar house overlooking Santa Fe, piles of cash. Lately, I’ve shifted my focus to tangible steps. How much do I need to earn each month to live the life I want? Do I need a new car, or would I rather travel? Where do I want to go, specifically? What’s the next step toward finishing my novel?
When I shared this approach with a friend, she challenged me: Why are you limiting what God can provide? What you can co-create with the universe?
I’m not. I know that things take time. I also know that sometimes, life surprises us with quantum leaps. But are they quantum? Or are they the result of years of unseen preparation, perseverance, and daily effort?
Creating the Future, One Action at a Time
I’ve learned that we don’t plan our future—we shape it through daily action. We need a clear vision, yes, but more importantly, we must believe in our ability to make it real. We must see it, taste it, feel it.
I know what it will feel like when I sign with an agent and sell my novel. I know what having the top three slots on the New York Times Bestseller list will taste like. But there’s no step-by-step plan to get there.
There’s only the work.
Writing. Rewriting. Editing. Believing. Never, ever giving up.
And that, I finally understand, is the real plan.