Chapter 1, January: Identity and Purpose

The meeting request appeared in my calendar on a Tuesday: Quarterly Check-In with Martin. Harmless enough. These things were usually just box ticking exercises where Martin asked how I was finding things, I said “good, yeah, all fine,” and we both pretended the conversation mattered.

I showed up three minutes early, which was my default setting for everything. Martin was already there, fiddling with his laptop. The small glass-walled meeting room felt like a fishbowl. I could see my colleagues at their desks outside, living their lives, completely unaware I was about to have a minor existential crisis.

“Phillip, hi, come in,” Martin said, gesturing to the chair across from him. He had that specific kind of manager friendliness that always felt rehearsed. Not unkind, just professionally warm.

I sat down.

“So,” he began, opening a document on his screen. “How are you finding things? Workload manageable?”

“Yeah, fine. All good.”

“Brilliant. And the team? Everyone getting along?”

“Yeah, no issues.”

“Excellent.” He made a note. This was going exactly as expected. Two more minutes of this and I could leave.

Then he leaned back in his chair and said, “So, Phillip. Where do you see yourself in five years?”

My brain went completely blank.

Five years. Five years. What does that even mean? Do I say management? Do I pretend I have ambitions? Should I mention professional development? What do I actually want? Oh God, what DO I want? Do I want anything? Is that bad? Why is he still looking at me?

“Um,” I said.

Martin waited, still smiling.

I waited, no longer smiling.

The silence stretched. I could hear the air conditioning humming. Somewhere in the office, someone laughed. My mouth opened. Nothing came out.

“I suppose,” I tried again, grasping at words like they were floating away from me, “I would like to, you know, progress. Development. Growth opportunities. That sort of thing.”

It sounded like I was reading from a corporate bingo card. I might as well have said “synergy” and “moving forward” and completed the set.

Martin nodded politely, made another note, and said, “Great. Well, let’s revisit this in the next quarter. Anything else you want to discuss?”

“No, all good.”

“Perfect. Thanks, Phillip.”

I stood up, shook his hand, and walked back to my desk in a daze. The rest of the meeting had passed in a blur. I vaguely remembered agreeing to things I hadn’t actually heard. I’d nodded at appropriate moments. Inside, I was spiralling.

I sat down at my desk, stared at my screen, and tried to look like I was doing something.

Where do you see yourself in five years?

The honest answer was: I have absolutely no idea.

Worse, I realized I hadn’t thought about it. Not properly. Not in years. I’d spent the last few years just existing. Waking up, going to work, coming home, eating something forgettable in front of YouTube, and repeating. I was thirty-one years old and my life had the narrative arc of a loading screen.

I opened my email. Stared at it. Closed it. Opened a spreadsheet. Stared at that too.

At lunch, I sat in the breakroom with my sad sandwich and tried to shake the feeling. A few colleagues chatted nearby about a new restaurant. Someone mentioned weekend plans. I ate my sandwich in silence and felt like a background character in my own life.

The rest of the day felt hollow. I went through the motions. Sent emails that didn’t need sending. Attended a call where I said nothing. Pretended to be present while my brain looped the same question over and over.

Where do you see yourself in five years?

By the time I got home, I was exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with work.

I sat on my sofa, stared at the ceiling, and muttered, “This is pathetic.”

My phone lay next to me. I picked it up, opened Reddit out of habit, scrolled for thirty seconds without absorbing a single thing, and closed it. I didn’t need to scroll through other people’s lives right now.

I put the phone face down on the table and sat in the quiet. My flat felt small, tidy enough, but uninspiring. Beige walls. Furniture I’d bought years ago because it was cheap and functional. Nothing on the walls except a calendar I hadn’t updated since November. The kind of space that said, “A person exists here,” and nothing more.

I thought about Martin’s question again. Where do you see yourself in five years?

The answer couldn’t be “sitting on this same sofa, eating the same sad microwave ready meals, doing the same job, wondering where my life went.” It couldn’t be that. But I also had no idea what else it could be.

I glanced at the kitchen counter. Last night’s plastic tray was still sitting there, the remnants of something that claimed to be lasagna but tasted more like regret. I ate those meals three, maybe four times a week. They were convenient. They were cheap. They were, objectively, pathetic.

My life was probably more pathetic than those meals, which was saying something.

A memory surfaced. Last Thursday. I’d finished work at five but stayed at my desk until seven, pretending to be busy, because going home to an empty flat felt worse than sitting in a half-empty office. When I finally left, I’d walked to the bus stop the long way, stopping at a shop I didn’t need anything from, just to delay the moment when I’d have to unlock my door and face the silence.

I’d got home. Microwaved a meal. Eaten it standing at the counter while scrolling through my phone. Then I’d moved to the sofa and kept scrolling. Three hours later, I was still there, still scrolling, unable to remember a single thing I’d seen. I’d gone to bed at midnight feeling hollowed out.

That was a week ago. That was most weeks.

I shook my head, trying to dislodge the memory.

Then I remembered something else. A post I’d seen on Reddit earlier that week. I’d scrolled past it without really thinking about it, but now it came back.

“You don’t need to change your entire life overnight. You just need to get one percent better every day.”

One percent.

I sat up.

That sounded almost manageable. Not “wake up at five and become a different person” manageable, but actual human being manageable. One percent better. What did that even look like? Did it mean reading one page of a book? Going for a short walk? Not eating cereal for dinner three nights in a row?

I grabbed my laptop, opened it, and stared at the screen for a moment.

Then I opened ChatGPT and typed: How do I find my purpose?

The response appeared almost instantly.

It was helpful. Thoughtful, even. It asked me questions about my values, my interests, what made me feel alive. It suggested journaling prompts and small experiments.

I read through it twice. It was good advice. The problem was, it felt a bit too… gentle. Too “here are some things to consider.” I needed something with more personality. More direction.

Then I had what I thought was a clever idea.

What if I didn’t just use one version of ChatGPT? What if I set up multiple versions, each with a different personality? Like having a personal advisory board, except free and available at two in the morning when I inevitably spiralled about life choices.

I opened the Projects tab and stared at the blank screen.

This was either genius or a sign I had too much time on my hands. Possibly both.

I created the first project and titled it Dave. Then I sat there for a moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard, trying to figure out how to set him up. What kind of advice did I actually want?

I typed something brief:

“You’re Dave. Straightforward. No BS. Tell me what you actually think, even if it’s harsh.”

I saved it.

Next, I created Helen.

“You’re Helen. You like systems. You like plans. You probably have a spreadsheet for everything. Help me make sense of the mess.”

Finally, I created Chad.

“You’re Chad. Unreasonably optimistic. American. Believe in me even when I don’t believe in myself.”

I leaned back. Three different versions of advice. Three different ways of looking at problems.

I had no idea if this would work. It seemed ridiculous. But I was going to try anyway.

“Right,” I said aloud to my empty flat. “Let’s see what happens.”

I opened Dave first and typed: How do I find my purpose?

The response came quickly:

Dave: Alright mate, here’s the thing. You’re not going to find your purpose by sitting around thinking about it. Purpose isn’t hiding under your sofa waiting for you to discover it. You build it by trying things, seeing what sticks, and not being precious about it. Pick something that sounds vaguely interesting and just have a go. If it’s rubbish, try something else. Stop fannying about and start.

I blinked. That was… direct.

I opened Helen next and asked the same question.

Helen: Well, finding your purpose requires a structured approach. I recommend starting with a values assessment to identify what truly matters to you. Then, conduct an interests inventory. Cross-reference these with your skills matrix, and you’ll begin to see patterns emerge. I can provide you with a comprehensive framework if you’d like. Would you prefer a 30-day or 90-day plan?

I stared at the screen. A skills matrix? I didn’t even know what that was.

Finally, I opened Chad.

Chad: Phillip. Dude. Your purpose is already INSIDE you, bro. It’s been there the whole time, just waiting for you to step into your power. You’re one decision away from becoming the person you were always meant to be. I believe in you so much right now. What’s one thing that makes your heart sing? Start there. You’ve got this.

I closed my laptop.

“I have made a terrible mistake,” I said to my empty flat.

---

Over the next hour, I went back and forth between all three. I asked them variations of the same question. I got wildly different answers every time.

Me: What should I do first?

Dave: Go for a walk. Seriously. Ten minutes. Clear your head. Stop overthinking.

Helen: First, establish your baseline. Journal for three days to assess your current state. Document your thoughts, feelings, and daily patterns. Then we can create a targeted action plan based on the data.

Chad: Whatever your heart tells you, bro. Trust your gut. You already KNOW what to do. You’re a legend.

I rubbed my face. This was supposed to help. Instead, I now had three completely contradictory voices in my head, and I was more confused than before.

I tried again.

Me: Is purpose something you find or something you create?

Dave: Bit of both, innit? You try things, see what feels right, and build from there. Stop waiting for some cosmic sign. Just start.

Helen: Purpose emerges from the intersection of your values, skills, and interests. I recommend conducting a thorough self-assessment across all three domains. Would you like me to outline a framework?

Chad: Dude, your purpose has been there the whole time! You just gotta tune in to it. Close your eyes right now and ask yourself what makes you come alive. Do it. I’ll wait.

I closed my eyes. Waited. Nothing happened.

“Great,” I muttered.

I went back to the keyboard.

Me: I feel stuck.

Dave: Yeah, course you do. You’ve been sitting around thinking about being stuck instead of doing literally anything else. Go outside. Move your body. Stop spiralling.

Helen: Feeling stuck is often a symptom of unclear goals and lack of structure. Let’s break this down systematically. On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your current life satisfaction across the following categories: career, relationships, health, personal growth, and leisure?

I stared at the screen. I didn’t want to rate my life satisfaction across categories. That sounded exhausting.

Chad: Bro. Listen to me. You’re not stuck. You’re in a TRANSITION. This is the part where you level up. You’re about to become the most amazing version of yourself. Can you feel it? I can feel it.

I closed my laptop and stared at the ceiling.

This was chaos. But then I opened it again, because despite the chaos, something useful was emerging.

They all agreed on one thing, even if they said it differently: I had to actually do something. Thinking about purpose wasn’t the same as building it. Waiting for clarity wasn’t the same as trying things.

Dave said start small. Helen said establish a baseline. Chad said trust my gut.

Fine. I could do all of that. Sort of.

I opened my notebook, grabbed a pen, and wrote down three things I would try:

1. Go for a ten minute walk tomorrow morning. (Dave’s advice.)
2. Answer one journaling prompt each day for a week. (Helen’s advice.)
3. Pay attention to what feels right, even if it seems silly. (Chad’s advice, translated into something less intense.)

I looked at the list. It was simple. Almost embarrassingly simple. But it was something.

“One percent,” I muttered.

I closed the notebook, set it on the table, and tried not to think too hard about the fact that I had just spent an hour arguing with three AI personalities I had created myself.

This is fine, I thought. This is a completely normal thing to do.