Work And Purpose

I Need to Admit Something

For thirty-five years, I stood before classrooms full of students, lecturing on ethics, virtue, and the search for meaning. I spoke of eudaimonia – the flourishing life – with the quiet certainty of someone who’d mapped the terrain. I told them purpose wasn’t found in a job title, but in the way we lived our days. I was, I believed, a guide. A man who’d finally figured it out.

I lied.

Here’s what I’ve been thinking about: I spent my entire career avoiding the most basic question about work. Not the grand, abstract one about "the meaning of life," but the small, daily, terrifying one: What does this task actually mean for how I live? I hid behind the idea that work was purpose. That if I was busy enough, important enough, productive enough, I wouldn’t have to face the quiet, persistent question: Am I actually living, or just moving through the motions?

The Hidden Avoidance

I didn’t just think work was purpose. I lived it. I’d tell students, "A job is a vessel for your values," while meticulously scheduling my own life around deadlines and promotions. I’d cancel a walk with my wife to "finalize the grant proposal," then feel a pang of guilt I immediately dismissed as "just the pressure of the job." I’d judge colleagues who took sabbaticals or chose lower-paying work in the arts: "They don’t understand the real world," I’d think, not realizing I was judging my own fear.

The philosophers called this moral blindness – the way we rationalize our own actions to avoid confronting uncomfortable truths. I was blind to my own. I’d built a life where work was the only thing that made me feel seen, valuable, real. If I wasn’t working, I felt like a ghost in my own life. I’d fill evenings with emails, articles, or planning the next lecture, mistaking activity for meaning. I’d even tell my wife, "I need to be doing something," as if stillness was a moral failing. It wasn’t about the work; it was about the fear of what I’d find if I stopped.

Why It Was So Hard to Face

Because admitting this meant admitting I’d been living a lie to myself for decades. It meant facing the terrifying possibility that the thing I’d dedicated my life to defining – purpose – was actually a cage I’d built for myself. It meant admitting that my "ethical teaching" had been hollow, a performance for students and for my own ego. The hardest part? Realizing I wasn’t alone. So many of us do this. We wear "busy" like a badge of honor, mistaking the noise of work for the silence of purpose. We fear that if we stop, we’ll find nothing but emptiness. So we keep filling the void with more tasks, more emails, more doing.

I avoided this truth because it felt like admitting defeat. Like saying, "My life’s work was a mistake." It felt like admitting I’d been a fraud. And the deeper fear? That if work wasn’t purpose, then what was? What was I supposed to do with the hours? How could I feel valuable without the external validation of a job title, a paycheck, a project delivered?

The Moment of Honesty

It wasn’t a grand epiphany. It was a Tuesday. I was sitting at my desk, staring at a spreadsheet for a committee report I’d been working on for weeks. It was utterly meaningless – a bureaucratic exercise with no real impact. My wife had called earlier, asking if I’d join her for a walk in the park before dinner. I’d said, "Just finishing this, honey," and then I’d just… stared. The numbers blurred. The silence in the room wasn’t peaceful; it was heavy with the weight of my own avoidance. I’d been doing this for years.

And then it hit me, not as a thought, but as a physical sensation: This is the lie. The lie that this spreadsheet, this meaningless task, was the point. That my worth was tied to it. That if I wasn’t doing this, I wasn’t being.

I didn’t have a sudden, profound insight. I just felt a wave of shame, sharp and cold. I’d been a hypocrite. I’d spent my life teaching others to look beyond the job title, while I’d been trapped within it. I looked out the window. A child was chasing a ball in the park. The sheer, uncomplicated living of it. No spreadsheet. No committee. Just a child, a ball, the sun on their face. And I realized: I’ve been missing this. I’ve been missing the whole damn park.

What Changed

That Tuesday didn’t magically fix everything. But it cracked the dam. I started asking the question I’d avoided for 35 years: What does this task actually mean for how I live? Not "Is it important?" but "Does this move me toward what matters, or just away from the fear of stillness?"

I began to see work not as the source of purpose, but as a tool to be used in service of a life I want to live. It’s a subtle shift, but it’s everything. I stopped seeing "busy" as a virtue. I started saying "no" to tasks that didn’t align with my values – even if they were "important" to the committee. I started taking those walks with my wife, without checking emails. I started noticing the small moments: the sound of rain on the roof, a conversation with a neighbor, the quiet satisfaction of a well-made cup of tea. These weren’t distractions from purpose; they were the purpose.

I even had a conversation with a former student, now a successful entrepreneur, who confessed he felt empty despite his achievements. I didn’t lecture him about "finding your passion." I just said, "I used to think my worth was in the work I did. Now I’m learning to see the work as part of the life I’m living. What’s one small thing you do that makes you feel present in your own life?" He looked surprised. "I… I used to take my dog for a walk before work. Now I just rush to the office." We sat in silence for a moment, then he smiled. "Maybe I’ll try that again."

Practical Wisdom for the Rest of Us

So, what does this mean for you, reading this? It doesn’t mean quitting your job. It doesn’t mean rejecting productivity. It means asking, daily, the question I finally learned to ask: "Does this task move me toward what matters, or just away from the fear of stillness?"

Here’s how I’m trying to live it:

1. The "Why" Before the "What": Before I start a task, I pause. Why am I doing this? Is it because it’s expected? Because it makes me feel busy? Or because it aligns with something I value – like supporting my family, creating something useful, or simply being present for my own life? If the answer is "busy," I ask, "What’s the real need behind this?" Often, it’s fear. I try to name the fear: "I’m doing this because I’m afraid I’ll feel worthless if I’m not working." Then I ask, "What’s a small, real way I can feel valued right now?" (e.g., "I’ll take a 5-minute walk before I start this report.") 2. Embrace the "Unproductive" Moment: I’m learning to sit with stillness. Not to fill it with a podcast or a task, but to just be. I’ve started a new habit: every morning, before checking email, I sit with my coffee for five minutes. No phone. No thoughts about the day. Just the warmth of the cup, the quiet. It feels radical. It feels like reclaiming my own time, not just my own life. 3. Reframe "Busy": I stopped saying "I’m so busy." Now I say, "I’m choosing to focus on this task right now." It’s a small shift, but it reminds me I’m choosing how to spend my time, not just reacting to demands. It takes away the feeling of being a victim of my schedule.

The philosophers called this praxis – the practice of living according to your values. It’s not about grand, life-altering decisions. It’s about the tiny, daily choices: Will I check my email while my child is talking to me? Will I say "no" to a task that drains me? Will I take five minutes to just be?

The Real Confession

I need to admit this: I’m still learning. Some days, the old habits creep back. I’ll find myself scrolling through work emails on a Sunday morning, mistaking the activity for meaning. But now, I catch myself. I feel the old fear – the fear of emptiness, of being "less than" – and I ask the question: What does this actually mean for how I live? And the answer is always the same: It means I’m choosing fear over presence.

Work isn’t the enemy of purpose. The lie we tell ourselves about work – that it is purpose – is the enemy. Purpose isn’t found in the job; it’s found in the way we choose to live our lives, even within the work we do. It’s in the walk with my wife. It’s in the five minutes of stillness with my coffee. It’s in choosing to say "no" to the spreadsheet so I can say "yes" to the quiet moment.

I spent my life teaching others how to find purpose. I was so busy teaching, I forgot to live it. Now, I’m learning. Slowly. One small, honest choice at a time.

— Ray Bates, still asking questions