When I was in my early 20s, I believed a five-year plan could save me. It was kind of a map, a strategy, a safety net. While everyone around me seemed to be figuring out their lives in real time, I was going to be prepared.
I had timelines for my career, relationships, finances and even a vague idea of when I’d be emotionally mature enough to adopt a dog.
I didn’t think I was being controlling—I thought I was being wise. Isn’t that what we’re taught? That with enough prayer, hustle and clarity we can build a life worth living?
But here’s what no one tells you about plans: they rarely survive the actual living.
By the time I hit 28, almost nothing in that original plan had worked out the way I’d expected. I’d changed jobs more times than I could count. I’d moved cities. The relationship I thought would last hadn’t. I was no longer on the “track” I thought I’d stay on. And worse, I kept measuring every decision, every season against a vision I wasn’t even sure I still wanted.
I told myself I was just “behind” but the truth was deeper: I was tired. Tired of constantly evaluating my worth by how closely I was sticking to a schedule I made in a different season with different values and a different understanding of who I even was.
The more I tried to hold onto my plan, the more frustrated I became. Not because the plan was flawed, but because it was rigid—and real life is not.
And faith, as it turns out, rarely operates on a five-year forecast.
Throughout Scripture, God doesn’t hand out multi-year timelines. He gives daily bread. A lamp for the next step. A call to walk by faith not sight. The most meaningful stories of transformation—Abraham, Moses, Ruth, Paul—unfolded in detours, delays and interruptions. None of them had a plan that made sense on paper. What they had was obedience and a willingness to move forward without knowing exactly where they were going.
At some point, I had to ask myself: Was I following a plan or was I following God?
That’s not a rhetorical question. For a lot of us—especially those raised in achievement culture—it’s easy to confuse “progress” with purpose. But checking off milestones doesn’t mean you’re growing. In some cases, it just means you’re moving further from the life you’re actually being called to live.
When I finally let go of my five-year plan, it wasn’t an act of resignation. It was an act of trust. Not trust that everything would magically fall into place, but trust that I didn’t need to control every outcome in order for my life to matter.
I still don’t have a blueprint. I don’t know what I’ll be doing in five years. I barely know what I’m doing next month. But for the first time, I’m not afraid of that.
If you’re waiting for your life to look like the one you sketched out in a coffee shop at 22, maybe ask yourself who you were drawing it for.
Because sometimes, the most faithful thing you can do is stop chasing the version of your life you thought you wanted and start paying attention to the one that’s actually unfolding.
