I once bombed a job interview by telling the truth.
It was for a photography internship. Toward the end of the conversation, they asked me where I saw myself in five years. I gave them an answer I still believe in—but one that basically guaranteed I wouldn’t get the job.
I told them I didn’t have a five-year plan. I said I had two life goals: love God more each day than I did the day before, and be the best husband I could be—even though I wasn’t dating anyone at the time. (Still working on both, for what it’s worth. Most days I fall short.)
The other finalist had a crisp roadmap. Commercial photographer. Big goals. Clear milestones. I had a conviction and an open palm.
They chose her. And honestly, I get it. But that moment forced me to ask myself some bigger questions: What do I actually believe about calling? What does it mean to be faithful when you don’t know what’s next? And am I okay with a life that doesn’t fit into a neatly organized five-year spreadsheet?
If you had pulled me aside back then and said, “Hey, in five years, you’ll be working for Apple in London, married to the woman of your dreams, helping her go through grad school without debt,” I would’ve smiled politely and assumed you were confusing me with someone who had a trust fund.
Because five years ago, I could barely afford groceries. I was piecing together freelance gigs, trying to stretch faith into rent money. A trip to London wasn’t even on the mood board—let alone moving there.
That’s the problem with five-year plans. They only account for what we currently think is possible. They don’t factor in miracles, left turns, breakdowns, unexpected favor, or the fact that sometimes God opens a door you didn’t even know existed.
I’m not anti-planning. In fact, I like structure. I like vision. I like knowing what’s next. But somewhere along the way, we’ve convinced ourselves that the only acceptable version of adulthood is hyper-optimized productivity with quarterly KPIs for your personal life. And while that works for some people—God bless the spreadsheet planners among us—it’s also possible that our obsession with controlling the future is just a slightly shinier form of fear.
Because what if the five-year plan becomes a five-year trap?
What if we get so committed to the idea of what should happen that we miss what could happen? What if we’re chasing a version of ourselves we made up at 22, without stopping to ask if that version still makes sense?
When I think about Proverbs 3—“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding… and he will make your paths straight”—I hear a challenge to stay open. Open to God’s leading. Open to change. Open to a path that may not look anything like the one I had in mind.
It’s not about being passive. It’s about being available.
Because sometimes the best things in life are the ones you never thought to plan for. The friend who turns into a spouse. The detour that turns into a calling. The job that wasn’t on your radar but changes everything. And yeah, sometimes the prayer that gets answered in a way you didn’t expect—but in hindsight, was better than what you prayed for.
There’s a kind of arrogance baked into assuming we can predict the future. We act like we’re writing our life story with a pen, when in reality, we’re holding a pencil—and God has the eraser. And the pen. And the publisher.
My original goals weren’t bad. I wanted to get married. I wanted to make enough as a photographer to support a family. Those are good goals. But they were all about what I thought I could accomplish, not what God might invite me into. There was no room in that plan for wonder. For provision I couldn’t explain. For grace I hadn’t earned.
Now, I realize this might sound like a “just trust God and it’ll all work out” Instagram caption. But that’s not what I’m saying. Life isn’t a montage of answered prayers and golden-hour miracles. It’s hard. It’s confusing. Sometimes you take leaps of faith and land flat on your face.
There were moments when I thought I’d missed it. Moments I thought I should’ve said yes to something safer. Moments I doubted I’d ever get to where I wanted to go—if I even knew where that was. But those moments taught me something I couldn’t have learned any other way: There is purpose in uncertainty. And there is beauty in trusting God with the map—even when you don’t know where the road is leading.
Look, I know this approach isn’t for everyone. Some careers require long-term planning. We need doctors who stick to ten-year med school tracks. We need engineers and nurses and pilots. I’m not saying structure is bad. I’m just saying we shouldn’t confuse it with faithfulness.
The Kingdom of God has always moved through ordinary people willing to say yes to wild things. Abraham left everything without knowing where he was going. Mary said yes to the impossible. The disciples dropped their nets without a clue what came next. None of that fits neatly on a LinkedIn roadmap.
So maybe the question isn’t “Where do you see yourself in five years?” Maybe it’s “Who do you want to be today—and what would it look like to trust God with tomorrow?”
Somewhere along the way, I started praying differently. Less “God, here’s my plan, bless it” and more “God, what are You already doing—and how can I be a part of it?” It’s a scarier prayer. But it’s also a better one.
Because five years ago, I would’ve settled for a decent job and a used car and a couple of solid gigs. God had something else in mind. Something I couldn’t have seen coming. Something I didn’t even know how to ask for.
And that’s kind of the point. The best parts of my life weren’t part of the plan.
But they were part of His.
