I’ve been thinking about passion.

What are we actually passionate about? A career? A person? A hobby? A cause?

And then I started thinking about something else.

What have I done that is completely different from how I grew up?

The answer is: a lot.

I became a vegetarian as a teenager, much to my family’s delight. By “delight,” I mean they probably wondered where they had gone wrong.

I developed a ridiculous curiosity about other cultures, foods, places, people.

I travel.

I try things I didn’t grow up with.

I watch different shows. Read different things. Find myself fascinated by ideas that would never have crossed my path otherwise.

I left the little box I was handed.

But here’s the funny thing.

I never stopped loving the people inside it.

I didn’t run away and pretend I came from somewhere else.

I just kept expanding.

Maybe that’s what passion looks like for me.

Not one particular thing.

Maybe it’s curiosity.

Maybe it’s the need to see what’s beyond the next hill.

To taste something I can’t pronounce.

To walk down a street I’ve never seen.

To hear someone else’s story and think, Huh. I never thought about it that way.

I’ve always been a little bit of an outsider.

And yet, somehow, still deeply committed to family.

Maybe those things aren’t contradictory.

Maybe you can outgrow the world you came from without outgrowing the people you love.

Maybe you can belong somewhere and still be curious about everywhere else.

And maybe passion isn’t always the thing that makes you scream,

“THIS IS MY PURPOSE!”

Maybe sometimes it’s quieter.

Maybe it’s that persistent little voice inside you saying:

There has to be more.

And you keep going to find out.

Maybe that’s been my passion all along.