Why Would a Soul Choose Constant Failure?

Why would a soul choose a life of constant failure? Explore failure, purpose, growth and the lessons we may learn through life's setbacks.

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Imagine that, before entering this life, you stand at the edge of something you can’t fully remember.

You don’t know the details yet. You don’t know the names you’ll hear, the places you’ll live, the people you’ll love, or the decisions you’ll regret. You don’t know which doors will open for you and which ones will close before you’ve had the chance to walk through them.

You only know that you’re about to enter another human life.

Perhaps you look at the possibilities in front of you and choose a life that won’t unfold according to plan.

Not because you want to suffer.

Not because you’re being punished.

Not because you believe you’re somehow less deserving of an easy life.

But because there are things you want to experience that can’t be understood from a distance.

So you enter.

You grow up. You begin making plans. You imagine what your life might become.

And then, little by little, things start going wrong.

The job you thought would finally give you security doesn’t work out.

The relationship you believed would last ends.

The opportunity you worked for goes to someone else.

You try again. And it doesn’t work.

You put your trust in someone, and you’re disappointed.

You start something with hope, only to watch it fall apart.

You work harder. You change direction. You try to understand what you’re doing wrong.

Still, the pattern seems to follow you.

Money comes and goes. Work never seems to settle.

Relationships don’t become what you hoped they would.

You struggle to find where you belong.

Perhaps even within your own family, you feel as if you’re constantly trying to find your place.

And eventually, a question begins to follow you.

Why?

Why does it seem that whatever you try to build keeps slipping through your hands?

Why does life appear to work for other people while your own plans repeatedly meet resistance?

And what if, from a perspective far larger than one lifetime, this wasn’t a life you had accidentally fallen into?

What if you had chosen to experience what it feels like to try, fail, try again, and discover that life doesn’t always give you what you ask for?

Imagine stepping into that life now.

Not knowing how it will unfold.

Not knowing how many times you’ll have to begin again.

And not yet knowing why your soul might have chosen a life in which so many things don’t go according to plan...

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Live the Life

You are born into an ordinary family.

There is nothing remarkable about the beginning.

Your mother worries about money. Your father works long hours. There are photographs of birthdays, school plays and family holidays that you’ll look back at years later and remember differently from how they felt at the time.

As a child, you don’t think about failure. You think about what you’ll become.

You imagine that adults know what they’re doing. You believe that if you’re good at something, you work hard and keep trying, life will eventually meet you halfway.

You don’t yet know how often it won’t.

…

At school, you’re not the child who wins everything. You do well in some subjects. In others, you struggle.

You learn fairly early that some things seem to come naturally to other people. You watch classmates put their hands up before you’ve even understood the question.

You see someone else get chosen for something you wanted. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. Then you go home and think about it anyway.

There are small disappointments.

You don’t get the part you wanted in the school play. You don’t make the team.

You study for a test and receive a mark that feels unfair compared with the effort you put in.

None of these things are devastating. But they teach you something.

You learn that effort and outcome aren’t always connected.

You don’t have the words for it yet. You simply notice.

…

As you get older, you become more determined.

You decide that perhaps the answer is to work harder. If you’re not naturally gifted, you’ll compensate with effort. If you’re not lucky, you’ll prepare better. If someone else is more confident, you’ll become more capable.

You begin building a quiet belief that persistence can solve almost anything.

You don’t know yet that this belief will be tested many times.

…

When you leave school, you have plans. They’re not extraordinary.

You want a good career. You want enough money to feel secure. You want people around you who love you. You want a home that feels like yours.

You want to be proud of the life you’ve built. You don’t expect everything to happen immediately. You’re willing to work for it. Your first job isn’t your dream job, but you don’t mind.

You tell yourself it’s a beginning. You arrive early. You learn quickly. You stay late when necessary.

You take on responsibilities that aren’t technically yours because you want people to see that you’re capable.

Eventually, a better position becomes available. You apply. You prepare carefully. You imagine yourself getting the phone call. Instead, someone else gets the job.

Your manager tells you not to take it personally.

“You’ll get the next one.”

You nod. You say you’re fine. And you decide that next time, you’ll be even better prepared.

…

Next time comes. You work towards another opportunity. You spend months preparing for it.

You talk about it with friends. You picture what the change would mean. You imagine the extra money, the new responsibilities, the sense that your life is finally moving forward.

Then, unexpectedly, the position disappears.

The company changes its plans. There is no role anymore.

You stare at the email for a long time. You don’t know what to say. There is nobody to blame.

You close your laptop. You make dinner. You carry on.

That night, you lie awake wondering whether you’re wasting your time.

…

Eventually you leave. You find another job.

This time, you tell yourself things will be different.

For a while, they are. You enjoy the people. You learn. You begin to feel settled.

Then the company restructures. Your role changes.

The work you enjoyed disappears. The person you reported to leaves. The atmosphere changes.

You stay because you need the money. You tell yourself that not every job has to be meaningful. You can tolerate it. You have bills. You have responsibilities. So you keep going.

…

Around this time, you meet someone.

For the first time in a while, something feels easy.

You talk for hours. You laugh. You begin making plans without noticing that you’re making them.

You start leaving clothes at each other’s homes. You know each other’s routines.

You learn what makes the other person anxious and what makes them happy.

You think perhaps this is the part of life that will work.

You don’t need everything to work.

Maybe this is enough.

Then, slowly, something changes.

You notice the conversations becoming shorter.

You notice that you’re asking more questions than you’re answering.

You notice that plans are cancelled more often.

Eventually you sit across from each other one evening.

You already know what is coming.

“I don’t think this is working anymore.”

You look down at the table. You want to argue. You want to find a solution. You want there to be something you can fix.

But sometimes there isn’t.

You go home alone.

For the first few weeks, you keep thinking about it…

…

You tell yourself that you’re not going to let one relationship define your life.

You focus on work. You focus on yourself.

You meet someone else. This time, you’re more careful.

You’ve learned from the previous relationship.

You communicate more.

You try not to bring old fears into something new.

You pay attention to the warning signs.

You think you’ve finally understood what you need.

For a while, it works.

Then it ends too.

Different reasons. Different circumstances.

The same empty feeling afterwards.

You begin wondering whether the problem is you.

You replay conversations. You examine things you said.

You wonder what you should have noticed sooner.

You promise yourself that next time you’ll do better.

But a thought has started to form underneath all the analysis.

Perhaps there won’t be a next time.

Perhaps this is what your life is going to look like.

…

You don’t say that thought out loud.

You don’t want people to worry.

Instead, you become good at appearing fine.

You go to work. You meet friends. You laugh at dinner.

You answer, “I’m good,” when someone asks.

But there are moments when you feel as if everyone else has received instructions how to live life, but those insights never reached you.

Someone buys a house.

Someone gets married.

Someone has a child.

Someone starts a successful business.

Someone posts photographs from a holiday.

You look at your own life.

You know you’re comparing.

You also know comparison doesn’t help.

Still, you do it.

You wonder why things seem to happen for everyone else.

…

Money becomes another source of frustration.

You aren’t irresponsible.

That’s part of what makes it harder.

You work.

You save when you can.

You make sensible decisions.

Then something happens.

Your car needs an expensive repair.

A family member needs help.

Your rent increases.

You have to replace something you hadn’t planned to replace.

An unexpected bill arrives.

The money you thought you were finally going to save disappears.

Again.

You start over.

You build your savings.

Something else happens.

You start over.

You become careful. You become practical. You learn how to stretch money further.

But you never seem to reach the point where you can relax completely.

…

At one point, you decide to take a bigger risk.

You’ve had an idea for a business for years.

You’ve talked yourself out of it before.

This time, you decide you’re going to try.

You spend your evenings researching.

You build a plan.

You use your savings.

You tell a few people.

Someone says, “I think this could work.”

For the first time in a long while, you feel excited about your future.

You work constantly.

You learn things you never expected to learn.

You make mistakes. You correct them. You keep going.

And for a while, the numbers look promising.

Then they don’t.

A major customer leaves.

Costs increase.

You try to adapt.

You put more money into it.

You work longer.

You try another approach.

Nothing seems to gain enough momentum.

Eventually, you have to admit that it’s not working.

You close the business.

You sit at your desk surrounded by things you bought for a future that no longer exists.

You feel embarrassed. You don’t want to tell people.

When someone asks how it’s going, you say: “It didn’t work out.”

They don’t know what to say.

Neither do you.

…

That failure changes you.

Not because you suddenly understand something profound.

You don’t.

At first, you become angry.

You’re angry at yourself.

You’re angry at circumstances.

You’re angry at people who seem to succeed with half the effort.

Most of all, you’re tired.

You don’t want another lesson.

You don’t want another opportunity to become stronger.

You want something to work.

That’s all.

Just once.

You want to make a decision and have it lead somewhere good.

You want to stop having to begin again.

…

For a while, you stop trying.

You take the job that pays the bills.

You don’t apply for promotions.

You don’t start another business.

You don’t date.

You stop making five-year plans.

You become cautious.

When friends suggest something new, you say:

“Maybe.”

But you don’t do it.

You discover that repeated failure has its own kind of exhaustion.

It’s not always the failure itself that hurts.

It’s the anticipation of it.

You begin protecting yourself from disappointment by refusing to expect very much.

That feels safer.

…

Then something unexpected happens.

A colleague comes to you one afternoon.

They’re struggling with something at work.

They ask if you can help.

You sit with them.

You listen.

You ask questions.

You help them see a problem differently.

Afterwards they say:

“I don’t know how you did that. I couldn’t see it until you talked it through with me.”

You laugh.

“It wasn’t anything.”

But it stays with you.

A few weeks later, someone else asks for your help.

Then another person.

You begin noticing something.

All the things you thought had gone nowhere have taught you how to understand difficulty.

You know what it feels like to be rejected.

You know what it feels like to start again.

You know how embarrassing it is to admit that something didn’t work.

You know what people look like when they’re pretending they’re fine.

And because you know those things, people feel safe talking to you.

You hadn’t planned for this.

It isn’t part of the life you imagined.

But it begins to matter.

…

Years pass.

You have more disappointments.

Of course you do.

A promotion doesn’t happen.

A friendship ends.

Someone you trusted lets you down.

You make a financial decision that turns out badly.

A relationship you hoped might develop doesn’t.

You still feel the sting.

You haven’t become immune to disappointment.

But something is different now.

You don’t automatically interpret every failure as evidence that you’re a failure.

That distinction takes years to learn.

You begin to see that an outcome can be painful without defining you.

You can lose something without losing yourself.

You can be rejected without becoming unworthy.

You can make the wrong decision without being a person who always makes wrong decisions.

You can begin again without pretending the previous attempt didn’t matter.

…

Your relationship with success changes too.

You used to think success would finally make you feel safe.

Now you know it doesn’t work that way.

You get a promotion one year.

You enjoy it.

Then another problem appears.

You save some money.

You feel relieved.

Then life asks for some of it again.

You meet someone you care about.

You enjoy the relationship without immediately deciding what it must become.

You start to understand that perhaps the point isn’t to reach some final place where nothing goes wrong.

Perhaps that place doesn’t exist.

You just live the moment with little or no expectations.

…

You become less interested in looking successful.

This surprises you…

You used to care about what people thought.

You wanted people to see that you were doing well.

Now you care more about whether something feels honest.

You turn down an opportunity that would look impressive but would leave you miserable.

You disappoint someone.

You survive it.

You say no.

You discover that disappointing someone isn’t the same as doing something wrong.

You make a decision that nobody around you understands.

You live with their opinion.

You survive that too.

…

Your family relationships change as well.

You begin to see your parents differently.

For years, you thought they should have known how to raise you better.

Then you get older.

You realise they were learning too.

They had fears you never saw.

They made decisions with the information they had at the time.

They got things wrong.

Some things they did still hurt you.

Understanding that doesn’t erase the hurt.

But it changes the shape of it.

You can hold two truths at once.

They may have failed you in certain ways.

And they may have loved you as well as they knew how.

…

You become more patient with people.

Not because you’ve become endlessly forgiving.

You still have boundaries.

You still walk away from people who treat you badly.

But you’re less quick to decide that someone who is struggling is lazy.

You’re less quick to assume that someone who hasn’t succeeded isn’t trying.

You stop looking at another person’s life and assuming you know how easy it has been.

You know better now.

You know what can happen behind closed doors.

…

Then, one year, another major disappointment arrives.

Something you’ve worked towards for a long time falls apart.

This time, you sit with the news.

You feel the familiar pain.

You cry.

You let yourself be disappointed.

And perhaps this is one of the most important moments of the entire life.

Because when the pain passes, you don’t immediately ask:

“What did I do wrong?”

You ask:

“Where do I go from here?”

…

The question is different.

You are different.

You don’t need to know that everything will work out.

You only need to decide what comes next.

So you begin again.

Not with the confidence you had when you were young.

With something quieter.

You know more now.

You know that you can lose.

You know that you can survive losing.

…

As you grow older, your life doesn’t become perfect.

There are still things you wish had happened.

There are relationships you never repaired.

There are opportunities you never received.

There are financial goals you didn’t reach.

There are versions of yourself you once imagined that never appeared.

But there are also things you never expected.

People you helped.

Conversations that changed someone.

Friendships that arrived late.

Moments of laughter.

Ordinary mornings you learned to appreciate.

A meal shared with someone you love.

A walk when your mind finally settles.

A conversation where you realise you no longer need the other person to understand your choices.

You begin to notice that your life contains far more than the things that worked.

It also contains everything you became because they didn’t.

…

Eventually, you reach old age.

You sit somewhere familiar.

The room around you contains objects gathered over decades.

Some were bought during periods when you had money.

Some were kept through difficult years.

Some belonged to people who are no longer alive.

You look back.

You don’t see a perfect life.

You don’t even see a successful life in the way you once defined success.

You see a life in which you tried.

You see how often you wanted certainty.

You see how often you believed the next achievement would finally settle everything.

You see how many times you thought failure meant you were falling behind.

And then you remember the people who came to you when they were struggling.

You remember the conversations.

You remember how many times someone said, “I needed to hear that.”

You remember that you learned to sit beside people without immediately trying to fix them.

You remember how much compassion grew in you because you knew what disappointment felt like from the inside.

You remember becoming less judgmental.

Less afraid of beginning again.

Less attached to proving yourself.

You remember learning that your worth was not something an outcome could give you.

And you wonder whether perhaps this was always part of the journey.

Not to become someone who never failed.

But to become someone who could live fully without needing life to guarantee success.

…

Your body becomes tired.

Your life begins to slow.

There are fewer plans.

More memories.

You think about the younger version of yourself who believed that life would make sense if you worked hard enough.

You wish you could sit beside that younger self for a while.

You wouldn’t tell them that everything would work out.

You couldn’t honestly promise that.

Instead, perhaps you’d say:

“You don’t have to understand this yet.”

“You don’t have to get everything right.”

“And please don’t confuse what happens to you with who you are.”

…

Near the end of your life, you look back one last time.

You don’t count the promotions.

You don’t count the money.

You don’t count the opportunities you missed.

You remember the people.

You remember what you learned about yourself.

You remember every time you thought you couldn’t begin again and somehow did.

You remember that some of the most important parts of you were formed during years you once wished had never happened.

And perhaps, as the life comes to its end, you can finally see something you couldn’t see while you were living it.

The failures weren’t separate moments.

They were part of one long human experience.

A life in which you repeatedly discovered that you were more than the outcome of your plans.

A life in which you learned how to keep your heart open without knowing what would happen next.

A life in which you slowly stopped asking life to prove that you were worthy.

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Why This Life?

Imagine, for a moment, that you could look back at this lifetime from the perspective of your soul.

You would see a life in which almost every important ambition was met with resistance. You worked hard, made plans, invested in relationships and tried to create financial security, yet so much of what you wanted remained beyond your reach.

Why might your soul have chosen such an experience? What could you have hoped to understand through a lifetime in which effort so rarely produced the results you expected?

Perhaps the answer begins with the very thing you spent most of your life trying to achieve: success.

1. Discovering Who You Are Without Success

Imagine that your soul had already experienced lifetimes in which determination led to achievement. Perhaps you’d known what it felt like to be admired, financially secure, professionally accomplished and surrounded by people who valued you.

You might have understood the satisfaction of reaching your goals, but how much would you have known about yourself without those achievements?

In this lifetime, you were repeatedly separated from the things you believed would establish your worth.

The promotion went to someone else. The business you invested in failed. Your financial security disappeared whenever you seemed close to achieving it. Even your relationships challenged your belief that being loving, attentive and committed would guarantee that someone would stay.

Perhaps your soul wanted to explore an identity that couldn’t depend on external confirmation.

You discovered how much of your self-worth had become attached to being chosen, recognised, loved and successful. Every disappointment brought you into contact with the uncomfortable question of who you were when none of those things was available.

And perhaps that was an understanding you couldn’t have developed in quite the same way through a lifetime of consistent achievement.

Not because success prevents self-knowledge, but because repeated failure forced you to examine parts of yourself that success might have allowed you to overlook.

2. Learning Compassion Through Personal Experience

Consider how your repeated disappointments changed the way you understood other people.

When you were younger, you believed that hard work, discipline and determination were usually enough to create a successful life.

Then you experienced the limits of that belief.

You worked hard and remained overlooked. You managed your money carefully and still struggled financially. You approached relationships with genuine intentions and still experienced rejection.

Eventually, you began recognising how little you could know about another person’s circumstances by looking at their achievements.

When your colleague struggled, you understood the embarrassment of needing help. When someone experienced rejection, you knew how easily it could become a judgment about personal worth.

Perhaps your soul wanted to develop a form of compassion that came from recognising your own experiences in the struggles of others.

You weren’t compassionate because you had become an expert at overcoming difficulty. You understood because you remembered what it felt like to be in the middle of it, with no certainty that things would improve.

And perhaps this was one of the distinctive gifts of this lifetime.

Your failures gave you an understanding that you could share without needing to have all the answers.

3. Experiencing Love Without the Promise of Permanence

Your relationships offered another dimension of this journey.

You entered them hoping that commitment, understanding and affection would lead to lasting love. When they ended, you questioned yourself and wondered whether you could have done something differently.

For a long time, you measured the value of those relationships by whether they lasted.

Perhaps your soul wanted to experience love without being able to secure its outcome.

You gradually discovered that loving someone didn’t give you control over their feelings or their decisions. A relationship could contain genuine affection and still come to an end.

You also began to understand that rejection didn’t necessarily mean you were unworthy of love.

Perhaps the experience of loving, losing and remaining open to connection offered something that a lifetime of uninterrupted companionship might not have revealed in the same way.

You learned that you could value a relationship without requiring it to last forever to justify the love you had given.

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Why This Life and Not an Easier One?

You might still wonder why your soul would choose so many disappointments rather than learning these qualities through a more comfortable life.

After all, compassion can develop through love. Self-worth can grow through healthy relationships. Acceptance can emerge through ordinary experiences.

Failure isn’t the only way to learn any of these things, and suffering doesn’t automatically make someone wiser.

Perhaps what made this particular lifetime distinctive was the way these experiences came together.

• Your difficulties at work challenged your identity.

• Financial instability confronted your need for security.

• Relationship disappointments exposed your fear of rejection.

• Family tensions invited you to reconsider your expectations of others.

• Your struggles to find belonging made you question where your value came from.

Each experience approached a similar question from a different direction.

Could you continue to value yourself when life repeatedly failed to confirm the value you believed you had?

Perhaps your soul wanted to explore that question across an entire lifetime, rather than through one isolated experience.

Not to discover how much suffering you could endure, but to understand what it meant to remain engaged with life when the outcomes you desired were never guaranteed.

By the end of this imagined journey, you hadn’t achieved everything you wanted.

You hadn’t found an explanation for every disappointment, and you hadn’t become someone who no longer experienced pain.

But you had developed a different relationship with yourself, with other people and with the uncertainty of being human.

Perhaps your soul didn’t choose this lifetime to learn how to succeed after failing.

Perhaps it chose to explore whether a life could be meaningful even when success never arrived in the form you expected.

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Bringing These Lessons Into This Life

Perhaps the most difficult part of the life you’ve just imagined isn’t the failure itself.

It’s the possibility that you could spend years believing that failure means something about you.

You apply for the position and don’t get it.

You build the business and it closes.

You love someone and they leave.

You save money and something happens that takes it away.

You try to create a place for yourself within a family or community and still feel as if you don’t quite belong.

After enough experiences like these, it would be understandable to start looking for a common denominator.

You.

Perhaps you’d begin asking whether there’s something wrong with you.

But what if you could look at those experiences differently?

Not by pretending they didn’t hurt.

Not by deciding that every disappointment was secretly good for you.

And not by turning failure into something you’re supposed to be grateful for.

What if you could separate the outcome from your identity?

That imagined life offers an interesting place to begin.

You experienced failure so often that eventually you had to confront a question that success might have allowed you to avoid.

Who are you when things don’t work out?

Perhaps that’s a question worth carrying into this life too.

…

Think about the times you’ve worked hard for something and haven’t received it.

Maybe you’ve watched someone with less experience get the opportunity you wanted.

Maybe you’ve built something carefully and had to let it go.

Maybe you’ve done everything you knew to do in a relationship and still couldn’t make it last.

There can be a temptation to look backwards and search for the mistake.

Sometimes there was one. Sometimes there wasn’t. That’s an uncomfortable possibility.

We like to believe that life is fair enough that effort produces results. It gives us a sense of control. If something goes wrong, we can find the reason, correct it and make sure it doesn’t happen again.

But human life isn’t that predictable.

The imagined lifetime makes that difficult to ignore.

You could make good decisions and still lose.

You could make poor decisions and still succeed.

None of this means choices don’t matter.

They do.

It means they aren’t the only thing that matters.

…

Perhaps this also changes how you look at other people’s lives.

You see someone who has achieved what you wanted.

From the outside, their life can look straightforward.

But you don’t know what their path has required of them.

You don’t know what they’ve lost.

You don’t know what they’re afraid of.

You don’t know which parts of themselves they’ve had to develop or which parts they haven’t yet been asked to confront.

The imagined life makes comparison harder to sustain.

Because if every soul were choosing different experiences, then perhaps there wouldn’t be one universal measure of how well a person is doing.

One person might be learning what abundance feels like. Another might be learning what uncertainty feels like.

One might be learning how to receive love. Another might be learning how to remain open after losing it.

You can’t see another person’s entire journey from the outside.

And perhaps you can’t see your own either.

…

This becomes especially important when we think about failure.

We tend to use the word as if it describes a person.

“He’s a failure.”

“She failed.”

“They couldn’t make it work.”

But the imagined lifetime offers another possibility.

Perhaps an event can fail without the person being a failure.

The business failed. The relationship ended. The application was rejected. The plan didn’t work.

Those are descriptions of outcomes. They aren’t descriptions of your worth.

This distinction can sound obvious until life gives you a reason to test it.

When something you’ve invested yourself in collapses, it can feel personal because you cared personally.

But perhaps caring about an outcome doesn’t mean your identity has to depend on it.

You can admit that you made a mistake without deciding that you’re a mistake.

…

There is another part of this imagined life worth bringing with you.

You didn’t become compassionate because someone told you to be compassionate.

You became more understanding because you knew what disappointment felt like.

That doesn’t mean everyone needs to suffer before they can understand another person.

But perhaps our own difficult experiences can become an invitation to look at someone else’s circumstances with more care.

When someone is struggling at work, perhaps you don’t know how many times they’ve already tried.

When someone hasn’t achieved financial stability, perhaps you don’t know what they’ve been carrying.

When someone keeps returning to an unhealthy relationship, perhaps you don’t know what fear or history is influencing their decisions.

When someone seems unsuccessful, perhaps you don’t know what they’re learning that isn’t visible from the outside.

This doesn’t mean excusing harmful behaviour. Compassion doesn’t require the removal of boundaries.

It means recognising that a person’s circumstances are usually more complicated than the small part of their life you can see.

…

Perhaps you’ve also noticed how much of modern life is built around avoiding failure.

We compare achievements.

We measure progress.

We display the parts of our lives that worked.

We rarely show the applications that were rejected, the businesses that closed, the relationships that ended or the plans that never became real.

So we can easily begin believing that everyone else is moving forward while we’re the only person starting again.

But perhaps everyone is carrying a collection of unfinished stories.

You simply don’t see most of them.

The imagined lifetime makes that visible.

A person can look unsuccessful from one angle and be developing qualities of enormous value from another.

And perhaps the opposite can be true too.

Someone can appear highly successful while privately struggling with fear, loneliness or the need to constantly prove themselves.

There may be no reliable way to measure the depth or meaning of another person’s journey from the outside.

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Closing Reflection

Perhaps the hardest part of imagining this life is that nothing about it gives you a neat answer.

You can look back and see the disappointments. The opportunities that disappeared. The relationships that ended. The money that never seemed to stay. The plans that kept changing.

You can also see what those experiences may have opened within you.

But does that mean they were chosen? We don’t know for sure… Perhaps a soul does choose certain experiences before entering a human life.

Perhaps life unfolds through circumstances, choices, chance and consequence, and we search for meaning afterwards.

Perhaps both ideas contain something worth considering.

What matters for this reflection isn’t reaching certainty.

It’s the question that remains.

If your life doesn’t unfold according to your plans, could it still be unfolding according to a purpose you haven’t understood yet?

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