Lately, I’ve been asking myself questions that don’t seem to have answers for.

Does everything eventually become routine?

Does everything that is new eventually become old?

They call it the “daily grind” for a reason, don’t they?

When does something lose its luster?

And perhaps the harder question…when do we?

The past year has changed me in ways I never expected. Losing my wife after watching her fight with every ounce of strength she had, trying to raise my daughter, helping fellow veterans navigate a system that often overwhelms them, trying to build a business with purpose—it has all been meaningful. Yet, at times, it has also been exhausting.

People sometimes tell me how strong I am.

The truth is, strength isn’t the absence of questions. Sometimes it’s simply continuing to put one foot in front of the other while carrying them.

Why do I struggle to feel purpose on some days when I know my work changes lives?

Why does my soul sometimes feel quiet instead of alive?

It isn’t that I lack free will. Every day I choose to move forward.

It isn’t that I cannot love. If anything, loving deeply has become both my greatest gift and my greatest source of pain.

So what is it?

Is my tank full—but filled with sand instead of water? Have years of responsibility, military service, loss, caregiving, and simply surviving filled every available space until joy has difficulty finding room?

Or is it something simpler? Is my brain still healing from grief? Are the chemicals that shape emotion simply trying to find their balance again?

I honestly don’t know.

What I do know is this: purpose doesn’t seem to be something we find once and keep forever. It fades. It changes. It asks us to search for it again and again.

When I help a veteran receive benefits they earned decades ago, I see purpose.

When I teach someone how to navigate the VA system so they can eventually do it themselves, I see purpose.

When my daughter smiles, I see purpose.

But even purpose doesn’t erase grief. It simply gives grief somewhere meaningful to stand.

Maybe that is what healing really is.

Not waking up one morning and feeling whole again.

Not forgetting the people we’ve lost.

Not pretending life is the same.

Maybe healing is learning that even when life loses some of its shine, it still has value. That even when our soul feels quiet, it is still there. That even when we don’t have all the answers, we can still choose kindness, service, and love.

I don’t know if everything eventually becomes ordinary.

I do know that the people we help, the lives we touch, and the love we give never truly lose their value.

Perhaps that’s enough for today.

Tomorrow, I’ll ask the questions again.

And I’ll keep walking anyway.