Growing up, I’ve always felt like I needed something to dedicate my life to.
Maybe that’s where this obsession began.
I’ve always been drawn to stories about people who devote themselves completely to something.
Watching Japan Hour growing up, now aired on CNA in Singapore, has always inspired me. The show often features Japanese craftspeople working on what seem like incredibly niche projects that become their life’s work. They simply keep showing up, refining their craft year after year.
And what inspires me isn’t the craft itself. It’s the idea of doing something simply because you believe in it. Not because of external pressure. Not because it’s popular. Just because, deep down, you believe the work itself is worth dedicating your life to.
I wanted something like that for myself when I grew up. I didn’t care what it was. I just wanted that same sense of certainty.
But what would it be?
Now that I’m older, I feel no closer to answering that question.
What exactly is my life’s work?
For the longest time, I thought I knew the answer. I wanted to build systems, contribute meaningfully to the field of digital infrastructure, and create software that people in this field would genuinely find useful.
But as I got older, I found myself jumping from project to project. Each one followed the exact same cycle: the excitement of starting something new, the quiet conviction that I was working on something meaningful even if no one else could see it, the slow creep of doubt as that conviction faded, and finally moving on to the next idea.
I keep telling myself these are all attempts at finding the work I once imagined. That they’re all steps towards answering that question. That I simply haven’t found the one that succeeds yet.
But lately, that explanation has started to feel more like something I tell myself than something I truly believe.
I haven’t really dedicated myself to anything.
I’m still jumping around, making excuses, never fully committing.
So what is my life’s work?
I don’t know.
At 41, it’s becoming increasingly unsettling to realise that I’m still nowhere closer to the answer than I was all those years ago.
Perhaps what I’ve been chasing all this while wasn’t purpose, but reassurance. I wanted someone else’s approval to convince me I was on the right path.
There are many times in my life when I felt like I wanted to do something as my life’s work and started to believe that I could make it my work even if it would take years, maybe decades. But somewhere along that marathon, a stray comment or a lack of interest from others would slowly plant seeds of doubt.
Eventually I’d stop. Not because I no longer believed in it, but because I no longer believed in myself. By then, my ADHD brain would already have moved on, chasing the next source of dopamine.
I wish I could choose something, dedicate myself to it, and accept that I could spend my entire life working on it and still have nothing tangible to show for it. Because maybe that isn’t failure. Maybe the work itself is enough. Maybe the journey is the point.
I hope one day I’ll be a little closer to the answer.
It’s getting late, but hopefully it’s not too late.