I Didn’t Lose Myself Overnight

I don’t think I ever actually lost myself.

Let’s be honest. If I’d really lost myself, I would have done what every responsible adult does. I’d retrace my steps.

“Okay… where was the last place I remember seeing me?”

Costco? Possibly.

Home Depot? Strong chance.

The grocery store? Definitely wandered those aisles at least twice this week trying to remember why I was there, only to come home with twelve things I didn’t need and the one thing I actually went for still sitting on the shelf.

Maybe I’m hiding somewhere between the paper towels and the rotisserie chickens.

Or under the passenger seat of my car where all the French fries, receipts, and enough loose change to finance a small coffee have apparently decided to retire.

Maybe I accidentally packed myself away in one of those plastic storage bins labeled “I’ll Go Through This Later.” You know the ones. They’ve survived three moves, two garage clean-outs, and somehow still contain absolutely nothing you’ve been looking for.

Honestly, I should’ve checked the laundry room first.

If there were an Olympic event for washing, drying, folding, hanging, refolding, and then discovering someone had dumped another load in the hamper thirty-seven seconds later, I’d at least make the finals.

No…

I wasn’t lost.

I was misplaced.

Kind of like my reading glasses that somehow end up in the refrigerator. Or my phone, which I have spent a solid ten minutes searching for… while talking on it. Or the scissors. There is apparently one universal law of nature that says every household owns exactly seventeen pairs of scissors, yet only one actually cuts anything, and nobody knows where it is.

The funny thing is, nobody wakes up on a random Tuesday morning, stretches, pours a cup of coffee, and proudly announces, “I’ve made a decision. Starting today, I’d like to slowly stop doing all the things that make me… me.”

Nobody says, “I’d like to replace adventure with errands. Curiosity with grocery lists. Hiking with comparing toilet paper prices. I’d also like to spend the next twenty years wondering why I’m standing in the pantry.”

That would be ridiculous.

Life is much sneakier than that.

It doesn’t steal who you are in one grand, dramatic moment. It doesn’t send you an email with the subject line, ‘Notice of Self Misplacement.’ There isn’t a ceremony. No official paperwork. No tiny little tag that says, “Congratulations! You’re now the CEO of Everybody Else’s Needs.”

Instead, it waits until you’re busy.

Busy paying mortgages.

Busy raising kids.

Busy helping aging parents.

Busy building careers.

Busy keeping marriages alive.

Busy making doctor’s appointments.

Busy remembering birthdays.

Busy figuring out what’s for dinner every… single… night… for the rest of your natural life. Seriously, whoever invented dinner should’ve also invented someone else to decide what it is.

Then, while you’re distracted keeping everyone else’s world from catching fire, life quietly starts borrowing little pieces of yours.

Your hobbies.

Your curiosity.

Your energy.

Your spontaneity.

That crazy idea you always had about taking guitar lessons, learning photography, hiking national parks, writing a book, opening a little shop, or finally figuring out why everyone else seems to know what “pickleball” is.

It doesn’t happen all at once.

It happens one ordinary Tuesday at a time.

Then another.

Then another.

If I’m being completely honest… it probably took about fifteen thousand Tuesdays before I finally stopped long enough to wonder…

“Hang on… where the hell did I go?”