I Planned Fifteen Years. He Planned Three.

A few weeks back, I was able to pick up a half-day shift at my urgent care. It was mostly a test to see how well I held up. Like most acute care centers, it’s a busy place, and on a normal day it can be hard on me physically.

This was not a normal day.

By mid-morning, all twelve rooms were open. A few patients were checking in, and the big whiteboard on the wall, the one that’s usually full of names by ten o’clock, was almost clear. You don’t see that very often, and you learn early to never say so out loud.

About fifteen feet away, the medical support staff was having a huddle about recent metrics and some new way they wanted to document supplies. My colleague and I sat at the workstation in front of our computers and enjoyed one of those rare slow moments.

I hadn’t worked with him in a while. He’s a physician I’ve known for years, and once things got quiet, we started catching up. I asked about his kids. He asked about mine. One was already in college, and the other two weren’t far behind. We talked about how expensive college has gotten, and I’ve seen enough tuition numbers to know he’s not wrong.

Then came the question neither of us could quite answer. Is the degree still worth it in 2026? We were both first-generation college students, and we came up believing college was the way forward. And there we were, fifteen feet from a staff huddle, wondering if the path that worked for us still makes sense for our kids in the age of AI.

His oldest was following in his footsteps. She’s pre-med and casting a wide net for schools, even though he worries about the cost and figures she may end up at one of the two state schools. His other kid graduates next year and has no interest in college. He’s handy and considering learning a trade.

I thought about how many times in the last few years I’ve had to call HVAC, an electrician, or a plumber for one problem after another at the house. Someone could probably get ahead faster that way, especially without a pile of college debt hanging over them.

We talked about how hard it is to guide kids who have no real idea what they want to do.

I knew the feeling. I was in my late twenties before I felt like I was on the right path. Even now, part of me still wonders what’s left for me career-wise. Should I have it all mapped out?

He told me he doesn’t look too far ahead, maybe three to five years at most. It helps him stay open to what comes next, and he wants his kids to have some of that too.

After residency, he took a job in Alaska for a few years. He got to see a beautiful and remote part of the world, help a population that needed it, pick up new skills, and then move on to something else that appealed to him. I found it compelling.

About seven years ago, I sat down and tried to write out what I wanted my life to look like. I tried to map out how the next fifteen years would go. Of course, I built a spreadsheet to lay it all out. It had a tab for the big picture, then another for yearly goals, then tabs breaking the next three, five, ten, and fifteen years into milestones I could check off, as if a life were a project plan. For a while, everything was prescriptive.

It sounds wise now, but back then it felt more like necessity than wisdom. I got sick, and the fifteen-year version stopped being something I could count on. I held onto the destination and let go of the route. For a long time, I called that maturity. And maybe some of it was.

The route was the only thing I could afford to lose.

So when my colleague started talking about Alaska, and about what can happen when you only plan a few years ahead, it felt different to me. For him, that kind of flexibility seemed natural. He looked at fifteen years and figured he didn’t need to know all of it.

I got to that same place another way. My body made that call for me. Same open road, just a very different way of ending up there.

This is where it gets a little more complicated for me. I still hold onto the larger vision. I haven’t let that go the way I’ve let go of so many other things, and when I’m honest with myself, it’s because losing that would feel different. Because it would feel like letting it take one more thing from me.

I don’t have that sorted out. But a slow morning at the urgent care, of all places, was enough to make me notice I’d stopped asking.

Maybe that’s the part worth passing along. Or perhaps the takeaway is simpler than that. 

The next time you hear yourself saying you’re staying flexible or keeping your options open, pause for a second. Ask yourself whether that’s something you’re choosing or something you’re trying to make peace with. I don’t always know the answer for myself, but the question has been worth asking.

And if someone came to mind while you were reading this, the kind of person who mapped it all out or the kind who never has, feel free to send it their way.

Until next time.