This Wasn't the Plan

Grieving the life I thought I wanted – and why that’s okay

It happens in quiet moments.

You’re not even looking for it. But then, something catches you off guard – a passing comment, an advert on TV, a holiday photo on Instagram. Someone with their new kitchen and Caribbean tan, talking about the next promotion, the dream car, the dream life.

And for a second – just a second – you feel it.

The ache.

That little tug in your chest reminding you… this wasn’t the plan.

You don’t live that life. The one with two holidays a year and a walk-in wardrobe. The one with the job title, the savings account that actually grows, the easy answer when someone asks, “So, what do you do?”

You chose something else. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say – you were chosen for something else. And most days, it’s enough. More than enough, even. But there are still days when the grief lingers.

Not for a loss you lived. But for a life you didn’t.

Josh at 18 wanted it all.

Photo by Alex Rhee on Unsplash

The salary. The house. The car. The status. The ease. Not because I was greedy – but because I was human. Because I thought that’s what a good life looked like. Because I thought more would eventually become enough.

But then life cracked open.

Grief came and knocked down all the scaffolding I’d built. Loss stripped things back to the bone. And when that happens, when everything safe and solid suddenly feels fragile, you stop listening to the loudest voice in the room. You start tuning in to the quiet ones. The whisper that doesn’t shout for attention. The presence that doesn’t need proof. The peace that doesn’t promise ease, but meaning. That’s what changed things for me. Not ambition. Not success. Not self-discipline.

Grief.

Grief rewrote my definition of rich. It taught me that life is too short to chase things that leave you empty.

It’s funny how quickly you can learn what matters when everything else falls away. When you’re deep in the ache of loss, the world around you keeps selling the same dream: bigger, faster, better, more. And for a while I dug in deep - gambling because, just think of what I could do with the winnings, the lifestyle I could have, the meaning I could achieve. I drank because that’s what you did with friends but what about when you continue long after your friends are gone and there’s no-one but you and your thoughts? It took me living this to realise that that dream, the one of the ‘big life’, to realise it was a lie.

It felt hollow.

So I stopped chasing it. Not because I’d outgrown it. Not because I was suddenly wise. But because something deeper was calling. And I’ve found that voice is worth listening to. It doesn’t always make life easier. It doesn’t make the bills disappear. But it brings meaning. And meaning, I’ve learned, is the kind of wealth you don’t see in photos – but you feel it in your chest. In your sleep. In your relationships. In your work. In your soul.

There are doors that close for us. Ones we never get to choose. Others are wide open. Tempting. Safe. Predictable. And then there are the hardest ones – the doors we could walk through… but don’t. Because something in us knows: if we walk through that door, we’re leaving something sacred behind.

When I look back, I see a dozen versions of my life that might’ve happened if I’d taken that research job, that PhD, that graduate job, chosen a different rhythm, built something more.

And I’ll be really, brutally honest – some of those versions still call to me.

I can picture the salary, the house, the holiday cottage. The convenience of never having to explain myself. The pride in telling people what I do, instead of explaining who I’m trying to become. But I didn’t walk through those doors. And that choice came with grief.

Sometimes, we grieve the life we never lived.

It doesn’t mean we’re ungrateful. It doesn’t mean we made the wrong choice. It just means we’re still human. Still becoming. Still paying attention to the lives we didn’t live – and letting that teach us something about the one we did.

There’s a strange kind of tension in that, I think.

A grace in acknowledging that even when we choose meaning, there are days when more still looks tempting. When the house on the hill or the six-figure salary flickers back into view, just long enough to make you wonder if you should’ve chased it after all.

But deep down, I know.

I know what would’ve happened if I’d gone after the life I once thought I wanted. I’d have looked successful on the outside – and felt tired on the inside. I’d have filled rooms and emptied my soul. I’d have had more – and felt less.

Because for me, more would never have been enough.

What I have now isn’t flashy. It doesn’t turn heads. There’s no bi-fold kitchen doors or infinity pool. But I’ve got something different. A sense of peace I didn’t earn.
A rhythm that keeps me grounded. A voice I trust – one that doesn’t flatter or demand, but invites.

Some days that invitation feels wild and thrilling. Other days it feels quiet and small. Other days it feels terrifying and overwhelming. But however the day comes, it’s enough.

Because this road I’m on, as winding and uncertain as it can be, is filled with the kind of meaning I never found in the plan I used to cling to.

I think it’s important to say at this point that I don’t think God is disappointed when I feel the ache. When I see the life I didn’t choose and pause to wonder what if. When I sit in the tension between desire and direction. When I long for more, even though I’ve chosen enough.

I think He just sees me.

Not the polished version. Not the one who always gets it right. But the one who feels deeply, loves imperfectly, and keeps showing up. Because God doesn’t want robots.
He doesn’t need followers who never question, never wonder, never ache. He wants relationship.

And relationship is messy.

It includes sadness and longing and desire and doubt. It includes moments of wondering if we made the right call – even when, deep down, we know we did. That kind of wrestling isn’t weakness.

As far as my I’m concerned – it’s worship.

So if you’ve ever found yourself sitting in the life you chose and still mourning the one you didn’t – it’s okay.

You’re not broken. You’re not lost. You’re not ungrateful. You’re just being honest. You’re being human. And maybe, just maybe, that ache in your chest isn’t something to get rid of – maybe it’s something to listen to. Not because it’s pointing you toward regret. But because it’s reminding you that you feel. That you care. That you’re still alive, still becoming, still listening for the deeper thing.

And I think that’s exactly where you’re meant to be.

Josh | A Curious Follower

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A Curious Follower is a space for anyone who’s learning to slow down, live with intention, and follow the quiet tug of something deeper.

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Let’s keep walking this road – with wonder, with grace, and always with curiosity.