What If I’m Not Done Yet?

There’s a moment—somewhere between your third or fourth reinvention—where you start to ask yourself a very uncomfortable question: Am I evolving… or do I just not know how to stay put?

Because eventually, you stop celebrating the change… and start wondering why nothing ever seems to stick. Like… didn’t we already learn this lesson?

I’ve been a college instructor, a high school teacher, an administrator… unemployed… and now back in the classroom trying to figure out what comes next. On paper, it probably reads like a great story of resilience and upward movement.

In real life? It’s felt a lot more like starting over. Again. And again. And… yeah. Again.

Every time you reinvent yourself, you have to let go of something—even if you loved it. And nobody really talks about that part. We celebrate the pivot. The glow-up. The “look at them go!” of it all.

But behind every reinvention is a quiet goodbye.

For me, that’s looked like leaving behind a college teaching career I genuinely loved because it didn’t pay enough to support my family. It looked like stepping into high school teaching, building something meaningful for six years, and then chasing what I thought was “more” by moving into administration. And for a while, it was more—more money, more responsibility, more growth.

Until it wasn’t.

That role was taken away from me unexpectedly, and I found myself unemployed—trying to hold it together as the provider for a family of five while internally spiraling just a little bit like, “Cool cool cool… this is fine… everything’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine.

There was embarrassment. Humiliation. A kind of panic that sits in your chest and doesn’t really leave. The kind that makes you question not just your circumstances, but yourself. Like maybe the problem isn’t what happened… maybe the problem is me.

And now? I’m back in the classroom—doing everything I know how to do, using every skill I’ve built, proving to myself over and over again that I am good at what I do…

…and still feeling, some days, like a square peg in a round hole. That I don’t belong.

And then there’s this other part of me—the part that won’t shut up.

The part that still remembers being 13 years old, sitting in a theatre, turning to my mom and saying, “I’m going to do that someday.”

The part of me that sees himself on that stage every time I sit in a Broadway house. That feels it. That knows it. That hasn’t let it go—even after all this time, even after all these pivots, even after building a full life here in Mesa, Arizona as a husband, a dad, a teacher.

Because logically? It makes no sense.

Broadway isn’t down the street. Auditions don’t just pop up between third period and rehearsal. It’s a numbers game, and I’m not even in the room enough to be part of the numbers. The people who make it are there—every day, every call, every opportunity—grinding, training, showing up over and over again.

And me?

I’m here. With a full life. A good life. A life I actually love: A wife. Three kids. A job. Responsibilities. A mortgage. A back that doesn’t always cooperate. A schedule that doesn’t exactly scream, “Yeah, let’s just pop over to New York and see what happens.”

So there’s this constant internal conversation that sounds something like:

“Be grateful. Look at your life. This is good. This is enough.”

And then, almost immediately:

“Yeah… but what if it’s not everything?”

Because the truth is, chasing that dream right now doesn’t just feel difficult—it feels almost impossible.

And yet… there’s still a part of me that refuses to let it go.

That’s the tension I live in.

One says, “Be grateful. Look at your life. This is good. This is enough. Stop chasing. Stop reinventing. Just… stay.” And honestly? That voice makes a lot of sense. It feels responsible. Grounded. Safe.

But then there’s the other voice—the quieter one. The one that doesn’t yell, but doesn’t go away either. The one that keeps whispering, “What if you’re not done yet?”

Not just in theatre. Not just in career. But in life.

Because I’ve always believed—deep down—that I was meant for more. That God has been preparing me for something greater than myself. I just don’t know what that is, or when it’s coming, or how I’m supposed to recognize it when it finally shows up.

And living in that space—that in-between of almost and not yet—is heavy. It’s the constant wondering: Is this it? Am I missing it? How much longer am I supposed to wait? Do I keep going… or do I finally settle in?

I need a sign. A billboard. A burning bush if you will. Something. Anything!

And that voice?

That one doesn’t feel safe—not because it’s wrong, but because it asks me to step into the unknown. To risk. To trust. To move without having all the answers.

Safe is predictable. Controlled. Understandable. It keeps things steady. It protects what I’ve already built.

But true?

True is different.

True is the thing that feels aligned with who I really am—even if it doesn’t make perfect sense on paper. It’s the pull I can’t quite explain. The quiet nudge that says, “There’s still something here for you.”

And that voice?

That one doesn’t feel safe.

But it feels true.

I love my wife. I love my kids. I love the life we’ve built. I love what I get to do—even on the days that feel hard. I love being in a rehearsal room. I love being in a classroom. I love making people laugh. I love sitting in a theatre and feeling that spark. I love my faith.

I’m just… me.

The guy who drinks too much Diet Coke, chews too much ice, has to pee all the time, and is absolutely not sorry about any of it. The one who uses up all the hot water with long showers. The one who is either freezing or overheating—there is no in-between. The one with the loud laugh. The teacher. The director. The actor. The writer. The coach. The funcle guncle. The friend down the street. The guy in church. The one who still believes.

And honestly?

That version of me feels like home.

So maybe this isn’t about starting over. Maybe this is just what my life looks like—becoming, stretching, evolving… again and again. Not because I’m lost, but because I’m not finished.

Because I don’t think I’m ever going to be the guy who says, “This is enough. I’m done. I’ve arrived.” I think I’m the guy who builds a life he loves and still stays open to what else might be possible.

Who can be content and still curious.
Rooted and still ready.
Grateful for what is… and open to what could be.

Maybe nothing comes of it. Maybe everything does. But there’s still a part of me that wants to find out… I’m just not quite ready to tell that part of me no.

I guess that’s what living in the and looks like today.