Hey everyone. I’ve never done something quite like this before, sharing something so personal on social media, but I feel like I need to tell this story. Maybe it’ll help someone out there.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt this vague sense of being lost, like there’s this part of me that’s never been fully grounded. I grew up in a small town where everyone seemed to know who they were the moment they took their first steps. But me… I always wondered who I was meant to be.
A couple of weeks ago, I was cleaning out the attic of my parents’ house. They’re downsizing, and it was time to sort through the clutter of many decades. I came across this old, dusty box labeled ‘Samantha’—my name. It was packed away in the far corner, covered with layers of neglect. I wasn’t aware it even existed.
Inside, I found a small compass. It was nestled among some old school projects and forgotten toys. At first, I didn’t think much of it, just another trinket from my childhood. But when I held it, there was something about its weight, the way it fit into the palm of my hand. It felt strangely significant.
I asked my mom about it later that afternoon. She seemed a bit taken aback by the sight of it. ‘Oh, that old thing,’ she said, her eyes misty with the reflection of years. ‘Your grandfather gave it to you when you were just a baby. He said it would help you find your way.’
My grandfather passed away when I was four. I only have fleeting memories of him—his kind eyes, the way his laugh could light up a room. Hearing that story, I felt something inside me shift. It was like a forgotten part of me had been uncovered.
That night, I sat with the compass, just holding it, turning it over in my hands. I tried to remember what it felt like to be with him, tried to piece together everything I could from the stories I’ve been told. The compass, with its metallic sheen, its little needle quivering slightly, seemed to whisper secrets of direction and purpose.
I realized something as I sat there. I had always thought I was seeking some external destination, some place I could point to and say, ‘There, that’s where I belong.’ But maybe, just maybe, this compass was here to tell me that what I was looking for wasn’t out there, in the world. It was within me all along.
I started thinking about the choices I’ve made, the paths I’ve walked, and those I’ve avoided. I often took the safe route, the one that everyone else was taking, thinking that was what I was supposed to do. But now, as I reflected with this little compass in hand, my mind wandered to those dreams I’ve quietly tucked away.
I’ve always loved drawing, ever since I was a child. It was one of those things that made me feel most alive, most me. But I never pursued it seriously. Art, I was told, wasn’t a real job. And so, I pushed it aside, convinced myself it was just a hobby.
Holding that compass brought clarity. It made me question why I had followed everyone else’s directions instead of my own. It was as if my grandfather’s gentle guidance was leading me back to myself from beyond the years.
That weekend, I signed up for an art class at the local community center. It felt like the smallest step and the biggest leap, all at once. And with every stroke of the brush, with every line and curve, I felt a little more found, a little more like the person I was always meant to be.
I think about my grandfather a lot these days. I wonder if he knew, in his own quiet way, what that compass would mean. How it would eventually guide me not to a place, but to myself.
Thank you for reading this. I guess what I’m trying to say is, sometimes the thing that shows you the way is a thing you’ve been carrying all along. We just need to remember to check our own internal compass from time to time.
Take care of yourselves. Hold on to your own compasses, whatever they may be.