So, it’s been a month since I last posted on this blog—although in internet time, that’s at least a minor eternity. Why the drought? Well, you can refer to my previous post about my MRI results, but the gist is: nothing clarifies your outlook quite like a suddenly definite road sign on the horizon. Once you know what’s waiting for you at the end (whether it’s a marathon finish line or a knee with the structural integrity of overcooked pasta), every step on the journey becomes infinitely weirder. And maybe a bit more precious. Or at least, less likely to involve taking up parkour.

In the meantime, I’ve been on a quest that rivals anything in The Lord of the Rings, except with more existential navel-gazing and less elf hair: becoming a “better person.” Spoiler alert—this is hard. Nearly impossible, in fact, if you are starting from square one on the “being chill with yourself” board game.

Enter the self-help book. I am currently listening to Jen Sincero’s You Are a Badass, which feels a lot like being gently, repeatedly slapped with a glittery affirmation pillow. Credit where credit is due—it’s a breezy, friendly listen. But, as with most books in this genre, it eventually rolls to a halt at the crossroads of “trust the Universe,” “trust God,” and “trust your Spirit Guide (now available in fun holographic collectible form!).”

This is where I, as a timeworn skeptic, bristle a little. What if I don’t want to trust anything? What if I’m just not religious? I used to be, in the way that teenagers are usually religious because their grandma bakes them brownies to bring to Bible study. But that ended when I was essentially benched from the community for prioritizing volleyball over church. Which, frankly, still seems less heretical than missing church for, say, competitive taxidermy. And honestly, if God didn’t want people to play sports on Sundays, the NFL would have been smitten years ago. You cannot convince me that whatever is in charge of the universe didn’t have at least a modest hand in the Immaculate Reception.

In short: Self-help is not universal truth. If “trust the Universe” works for you, great. If you prefer to put your faith in your dog, or a really well-made grilled cheese, go for it.

Me? I put my trust in woodwork—actual, sawdust-laden, knuckle-busting home improvement. I redid my entire bathroom: cutting, caulking, painting, and discovering that bathtub caulk is essentially the universe’s way of teaching us patience. For those precious hours, I wasn’t worrying about my cosmic purpose. I had a concrete (or, more accurately, tile-and-grout) assignment—to make something better, one squint-eyed line of paint at a time.

So that’s the real moral here: Find your purpose, however fleeting or piecemeal. Keep it until it doesn’t fit anymore, then look for a new one. Purpose is like running shoes. You’ll need different ones for different terrains—just make sure something gets you out the door.

And with that, I promise not to wait another eternity to check in. Unless, of course, I get really into retiling the kitchen. In which case, all bets—and possibly all counters—are off.