There was once a man named Jonas who spent his whole life chasing purpose.
He was the kind of man who always needed a goal — a summit to climb, a title to earn, a next thing to prove. Every morning, he made lists. Every night, he measured himself against them. And when the sun rose again, he ran faster.
People admired him. He was determined, disciplined, driven — the kind of man who looked like he knew exactly what he was doing.
But every time he reached one horizon, another appeared.
One day, while walking along the coast, he met an old fisherman repairing his nets. The man looked peaceful, the kind of peace that doesn’t come from winning but from knowing.
“Don’t you ever get tired of doing the same thing every day?” Jonas asked.
The fisherman smiled. “No. The sea is never the same. I don’t fish for purpose. I fish for meaning.”
Jonas frowned. “What’s the difference?”
The old man chuckled. “Purpose is catching fish. Meaning is knowing why you still love the sea — even on the days you catch nothing.”
Jonas didn’t understand. Not yet. But the words followed him home like a tide that refused to go out.
Years passed. Jonas achieved everything he thought he was supposed to — the promotion, the recognition, the house that echoed with accomplishment but not laughter. And yet, when the nights grew quiet, he felt a strange emptiness.
He’d filled every hour with purpose, but not one with meaning.
He’d built a life around what he did, but not why he did it.
Then one winter, his wife fell ill.
The kind of illness that changes the shape of your days and the weight of your questions. For months, he sat beside her hospital bed, holding her hand, telling stories instead of goals.
They talked about small things — the smell of rain, their first dance, the way her laughter made rooms warmer.
And one night, as machines hummed softly and the world outside continued on without them, she whispered,
“You’ve spent your whole life trying to matter, Jonas. You already do. Just be here.”
Something in him cracked open — the quiet kind of breaking that lets light through.
After she passed, Jonas stopped chasing.
He didn’t stop living — he just started living differently.
He volunteered at the local school, helped strangers with broken cars, wrote letters to his daughter instead of emails. He started watching sunsets without needing to capture them.
One evening, a young man asked him, “How did you find your purpose?”
Jonas smiled softly.
“I stopped looking for purpose,” he said. “I started living with meaning.”
The boy looked confused. Jonas gestured toward the horizon, where the sky and the sea melted into each other.
“Purpose is what moves your hands,” he said. “Meaning is what moves your heart. When the two finally walk together — that’s when you start living.”
Purpose is the road. Meaning is the reason you walk it.
You can achieve everything and still feel empty
if your heart doesn’t know why your hands keep building.
Meaning asks why we exist.
Purpose asks how we live.
When the two finally meet —
life stops feeling like a chase,
and starts feeling like home.
Body of Brilliance 