I have a great life. But no future.

I bumped into an old friend at the gym today.

I was sweaty, flushed, just finishing my workout. He was fresh, bag over his shoulder, about to start his. We hadn’t seen each other in three or four years — long enough that you don’t quite know which version of each other you’re about to meet.

Opposite directions.
Five minutes at most.
One of those conversations that shouldn’t matter — but somehow does.

He asked first.

“How are you doing?”

Then added something that caught me slightly off guard.

“I knew you when you were travelling everywhere… being a digital nomad. How long have you been back in Sydney?”

“Since October ’24,” I said.

“Oh wow. How’s that going?”

I paused — just for a second — because the honest answer wasn’t a neat one.

I told him about the two false starts.
Two contracts I’d worked hard on that didn’t quite land the way I’d hoped.
Two moments that had stalled momentum and knocked my confidence more than I expected.

Not dramatic failures.
Just enough disruption to unsettle things.

(I left out last year's health challenges and being in recovery from a hip replacement)

Then he asked, “So… how’s life now?”

And this time, the answer came easily.

“It’s actually going really well.”

He smiled. “Why?”

And without planning it, I said something that surprised even me.

“I think it’s because I’ve stopped waiting for Sydney to come to me. I’ve started going to it.”

I explained how I’d made a conscious decision to engage again — socially, professionally, personally. To say yes more often. To initiate. To stop standing back and hoping momentum would magically return.

Something shifted in me when I said it out loud.

And that’s when I asked him how he was going.

“I have a great life. But no future.”

He didn’t hesitate.

“I’ve got a great life,” he said.
Then paused.
“But I don’t really have a future.”

It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t heavy.
It was calm. Precise. Vulnerable in a way that didn’t ask to be fixed.

He clarified gently.

“I don’t really have a long-term plan.”

And there we were.

Two people mid-transition in opposite directions.
One winding down.
One gearing up.

A strange, fleeting overlap — sweaty gym floor, clanking weights, people moving around us — and yet the moment felt oddly intimate. More honest than a long coffee catch-up would have been.

Then we wished each other well.
He went in.
I walked out.

And the conversation stayed with me.

When life is good — but unanchored

What struck me wasn’t concern.

It was how familiar that feeling is.

A great life with no future isn’t a crisis.
But it is a quiet tension.

Because when today isn’t connected to tomorrow, life can start to feel strangely weightless — like you’re floating rather than moving.

This is where so many capable, thoughtful people end up.

Work is fine.
Money is okay.
Health is decent.
Relationships are steady.

Nothing is wrong enough to force change.

So you keep going.

But drift doesn’t feel like failure.
It feels like comfort without direction.

Why planning feels harder than it used to

At this stage of life, the issue usually isn’t ambition.

It’s that the old maps don’t work anymore.

The goals you once had:

• don’t excite you

• don’t fit who you are now

• or feel like someone else’s idea of success

So planning feels artificial. Forced. Slightly hollow.

And without realising it, many people stop planning altogether — not intentionally, just quietly.

Sometimes the work is relearning who you are

That conversation reminded me why people come to coaching even when their life is “good.”

Not to fix something broken.
But to re-anchor.

To relearn:

• what energises them now

• how they actually make decisions

• where confidence comes from (and where it leaks)

• what kind of future would feel congruent — not impressive

This is where strengths work becomes powerful.

Not as labels.
Not as personality fluff.

But as a mirror.

A way of putting language to patterns you’ve been living inside without noticing.

A future doesn’t need to be perfect — just intentional

Not everyone needs a 10-year vision.

But most people need:

• a 2–3 year direction

• a sense of momentum

• the feeling that today is leading somewhere

Because a great life without a future can quietly become smaller.

Not immediately.
But over time.

Why that moment mattered

That brief exchange at the gym stayed with me because it revealed something simple and human.

Two people crossing paths.
One re-engaging with the world.
One realising he might be standing still.

Neither wrong.
Neither failing.

Just at different edges of the same question:

Am I actively shaping what comes next — or am I hoping it will arrive?

Those moments don’t last long.
But they tell the truth.

And often, they’re the exact moments when people realise they don’t need more effort.

They need clarity, self-understanding, and a future that actually feels like theirs.

Even if that starts with relearning who they are.

Especially when life is already good.