The Lantern on the Trail

What if the goal is not the destination, but the direction?

We tend to speak about goals as if they are prizes to be collected, milestones to be ticked off and displayed as evidence that we are progressing. But over time, and through a few painful lessons, I have started to believe that the real value of a lofty goal has very little to do with whether you ever reach it.

Years ago, I went to the Barkley Marathons.

On paper, I failed. I did not finish. I came home without the outcome I had trained for. At the time, that felt heavy. The race arrived in my life not long after I had lost my dad, and although I did not fully understand it then, I was carrying far more than a training plan.

Barkley pushed me into darker places than I knew existed. Not just physically, but emotionally. It exposed fragility, ego, and an old habit of tying achievement too closely to worth. It hurt in ways that were difficult to articulate, and for a while it left me questioning more than just my ability to complete a race.

And yet, I would not remove it from my life.

Because in failing there, I began to see more clearly. Not that I should soften ambition or retreat from commitment, but that I needed to understand why I was chasing what I was chasing. I began to recognise where I had confused proving something with healing something. The goal did not give me a finish line. It gave me some perspective.

Later, the Yukon became another lantern.

What that project gave me was not certainty, but excitement. I rediscovered the joy of being an amateur again, of learning from scratch and stepping into something genuinely unknown. There was a deep energy in that. I felt curious. I felt slightly afraid. I felt alive in the process of figuring it out.

Training for it reshaped my days. It changed my mornings, my conversations, my sense of identity. I was building towards something that demanded attention and care. The outcome did not unfold as I had imagined, but the months leading into it reorganised me. They pulled me away from comfort and back towards growth.

That is what a bold goal does. It asks you to become someone capable of attempting it.

There was a year in New Zealand where I drifted.

Drifting was part of healing, but it was not easy. I felt uncertain, often unhappy, and at times quietly worthless. Energy without direction is a strange thing. You can be busy and still feel lost. Without a lantern, the trail feels completely indistinct.

When I set something ambitious now, something that carries a little discomfort, everything sharpens. My discipline improves. My decisions become cleaner. I connect more deeply with the people who matter because I am building something that requires honesty and support. Even the act of asking for help, of risking embarrassment, creates movement.

Right now there is another endeavour forming on the horizon. It is not fully defined and the light is faint, but each uncomfortable conversation, each message sent, each opinion sought feels like spotting another small glow further up the trail.

The running itself does not concern me. What unsettles me far more is the idea of not trying.

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A lofty goal is not a guarantee of arrival. It is a compass bearing in difficult conditions. It gives shape to your days and meaning to your effort. Whether you stand on the summit or turn back short of it, you will have walked differently because of it.

And that, for me, is enough.

If you are unsure where to begin, maybe start simply. Choose one goal for the next three to six months that genuinely stretches you, write it down somewhere visible, and allow it to influence your weekly decisions rather than obsessing over the final outcome.

You may not touch it. You may fail publicly. You may have to reassess.

But you will not drift.

And sometimes, especially after grief, after injury, after those quiet seasons where you question your worth, not drifting is the most powerful decision you can make.

Set the lantern high enough that it changes you.

The light does not need to be blinding. It just needs to be far enough ahead that you have to keep walking.

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