Adults are always asking kids, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” It might feel like a simple enough question. Most of us picked something flashy—astronaut, firefighter, professional athlete. For me, I wanted to be a veterinarian from the age of three all the way until I took high school chemistry and realized I hated it. The point is, we weren’t expected to have it all figured out at three, seven, or even fifteen years old, but the question planted a seed: one day, you should know. One day, you will arrive at your destination.

That seed grows quietly. It sprouts in every school project that asks you to chart your dream career. It shows up in conversations with guidance counselors and relatives at family gatherings. And eventually, it becomes something heavier, a measure of progress, a silent benchmark by which we compare ourselves to others.

I’m 42 now. I’m approaching retirement from a long military career. When I was younger, I had an easy answer. I wanted to be a veterinarian; until I didn’t. Now, the question is a little different: “What are you going to do after you retire?” And I answer with a shrug and a bit of pride, “I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.”

Oddly enough, I’ve never really been bothered by not knowing. I had friends who would stress about it, who felt adrift without a clear path or purpose. But I always had a quiet sense that we were all just figuring it out as we went. Life felt too big, too strange, too unpredictable to be solved like a math equation. Somewhere deep down, I trusted that it would make more sense later … or maybe it never would, and that was okay too. The older I get, the more I realize that the people who seem to have it all figured out are often just better at telling a tidy story. Real life is rarely that neat. Real life is more often made up of pivots, pauses, and paths that wander. That’s not a weakness, it’s a feature.

A Resume with Range

An Army buddy of mine once kept a running tally of all the times I told him a story about a job I had never mentioned before. His rule was simple: if I had been paid even a single dollar, it counted as a job. By the time we parted ways, his count had hit 56. I think he might have padded the number a bit for effect, but even so, when I sat down to make my own list, I was struck by just how many hats I’ve worn over the years.

I’ve delivered newspapers in the dead of Minnesota winters as a paperboy. I flipped ribs and bussed tables at Famous Dave’s. I developed film and took family portraits at Proex before smartphones made everyone a photographer. I stocked freezers at Cub Foods and Kowalsky’s, eventually moving up to manage the shipping and receiving department. I packed boxes at FedEx and stuffed envelopes on temp assignments that barely lasted a day. I drove children to school on the school bus and parked luxury cars as a valet for the Marriot Hotel. I even logged long hauls behind the wheel of a semi spending 14 days on the road for every two days at home.

For a while, I played music in coffee shops around Stillwater, Minnesota, and even busked in the Boston subway while I was in college (I made $7 and a box of donuts!). I did mystery shopping gigs for grocery money. I spent years working as a camp counselor for the Boy Scouts, where I wore so many hats: lifeguard, aquatics director, canoeing instructor, merit badge counselor, all while living in a tent in the woods.

Then came the Army. While most people think of the military as a strict and rigid place of employment, I still found a way to keep jumping from job to job: infantryman, RTO, squad leader, platoon sergeant, acting first sergeant for three chaotic days. I transitioned to aviation, became a Blackhawk pilot, took on pilot-in-command and air mission commander (AMC) responsibilities, and eventually focused on survivability and mission planning as an Aviation Mission Survivability Officer (AMSO). These days, I’m a cloud technician working with AI systems. In between, I’ve done voice-over work, started a YouTube channel, streamed on Twitch, and kept chasing down curiosities wherever they led. I’ve even spent some time delivering food and groceries as a DoorDasher and Walmart Spark driver.

It’s quite the patchwork. Each job came with a different uniform, a different pace, a different version of who I was in that season. Some jobs I took out of necessity. Others, out of curiosity. A few of them, I outright stumbled into.

But here’s the truth: none of it was time wasted.

More Than a Job Title

If you judge life by how neatly it fits into a resume, mine might look like a mess. But I’ve come to realize that a nonlinear path isn’t something to be ashamed of. In fact, it’s a source of pride. I will never be the man who worked 40 years in the same place and retired, but even so, I’m closing in on one retirement after 20 years in the Army, and I look forward to a second career, all while continuing to explore my interests and follow my dreams.

Every role I held taught me something. Being a school bus driver taught me patience. Working as a camp counselor taught me leadership through service, the kind of leadership that doesn’t rely on a rank. Lifeguarding taught me vigilance and attention to detail. Valet parking taught me problem solving and being the night auditor reinforced my ability to solve issues without direct supervision. Even loading packages on trailers until 1am just to wake up and go to classes at 9am taught me about work life balance and time management.

None of it was wasted.

Even the jobs that felt like detours ended up giving me something. And that’s what I want to share with anyone out there who feels like they’re behind or directionless or wondering why they still haven’t “found their thing.”

You haven’t failed. You’ve been living.

A Culture Obsessed with Final Forms

We live in a culture that glorifies the destination. The job title. The brand. The career path with a clear trajectory and a six-figure salary at the end. And if you haven’t “arrived” by 30, or 35, or 40, the world starts to whisper: What’s wrong with you?

But here’s what they don’t tell you: most people are still figuring it out. A lot of people get so fixated on what the end looks like, they forget to look around and enjoy the journey.

I know infantry soldiers who became pastors. Teachers who turned into UX designers. Corrections officers who now write code and work in robotics. It’s easy to fall into a trap of feeling lost, like you’re somehow behind, or that you missed a crucial step everyone else knew about.

But here’s the secret:

Life keeps going even if you don’t have it all figured out. As a species, we’re remarkably resilient. We adapt. We grow. We pivot when we need to and we survive. That kind of wisdom, the kind you earn in the middle of uncertainty, doesn’t show up in a LinkedIn headline, but it’s the stuff that matters most.

That kind of experience doesn’t fit neatly on a resume, but it’s the stuff that makes a good teammate, a thoughtful leader, and a wise friend.

Looking Ahead (with Grace)

As I near retirement from the Army, I’m staring down a familiar question: What do I want to be when I grow up?

I won’t answer it with pressure. I’ll answer it with curiosity.

Maybe I’ll teach, my daughter will be in high school, maybe I’ll embarrass her on the daily. Maybe I’ll keep building things in the cloud. I do really enjoy what I’m doing now, and it affords me the ability to continually study new technologies. Maybe I’ll write more. Maybe I’ll lean into retirement and just take on odd jobs. Maybe I’ll do something I haven’t even thought of yet. I don’t need a final answer right now. I just need to keep moving in the direction of meaning, purpose, and growth.

And I need to keep giving myself grace. That’s the part we often forget. That’s the part that can be easier said than done.

If you’re in a season of transition, or if your path has felt more like a pinball machine than a straight line, take a deep breath. You’re not lost. You’re collecting tools. You’re becoming the kind of person who’s ready for the next thing … whatever it may be.

So, here’s to the paper routes, the late shifts, the awkward transitions, and the jobs we don’t always talk about. They all matter. They all count.

And if you still don’t know what you want to be when you grow up? Welcome to the club. I’m glad you’re here.