Why you shouldn’t follow your passion (and what to do instead)

Off to meet the locals… the really big ones 🐋 Whale watching in Norway

For years, I believed that my work should be my passion.

I thought that if I could just figure out what I was wildly passionate about, everything else would fall into place. I also believed, quite strongly, that I needed to feel deeply connected to the products I was working on. In hindsight, that was a little ambitious, considering that, among all the products I worked on, I ended up marketing some extremely pungent cheese I would never eat, and a smoking cessation product that did not work particularly well at helping people quit cigarettes.

I looked for THAT passion everywhere: in conversations, in books, in fleeting moments of inspiration that I hoped would somehow turn into lasting clarity. I was, quite literally, consumed by the need to find that all-consuming passion. And slowly, almost without realising it, the search began to spill into everything else too.

I treated hobbies like clues. I signed up for courses, explored side projects, such as travel and food blogs, to name just a few. I followed sparks of interest that I hoped would lead to something bigger, something defining. My free time was NEVER free, it was filled with a quiet urgency to find the THING. Every new hobby could, theoretically, become a cue for my new path. That was part of the mindset too, always scanning for potential, trying to turn personal curiosity into something more official, more tangible, more productive.

At one point, I started a product-based business because I believed deeply in both the product and the mission. I absolutely loved what we created, and I still do. It still stings that I couldn’t find a way to keep the business alive through the disruptions of the pandemic, ongoing supply chain issues, and the general messiness of Brexit. Letting it go was never about falling out of love with the product. It was the reality of trying to sustain a side business while managing a demanding and slightly toxic corporate job I wasn’t yet in a position to leave. I was stretched thin, emotionally and practically. And in the end, passion simply wasn’t enough to carry all of it.

In the months that followed, through a long process of reflection and uncomfortable honesty, I had to confront a deeper truth. While my passion had been in the product, my true purpose lived in the process itself—the act of helping realise potential that had not yet been seen or fully formed. At the time, I was trying to introduce people to Moringa, a powerful botanical with remarkable health properties, something I genuinely believed in and still do. But it is a bit of an ugly duckling. It does not look particularly appealing, and it certainly does not smell or taste great. Because of that, it was often overlooked. That seemed like the perfect challenge to me. I wanted to change that.

What I didn’t realise at the time is that passion works like that. It is emotional. It is unpredictable. It consumes you, and then it fades, sometimes just as quickly as it arrived. And when you’ve built everything around it, your energy, your hopes, your decisions, the whole thing can start to wobble.

When passion fades

Passion feels powerful when it is here. It can fuel ideas, long hours, and big dreams. But it is not always built to last. And it is not meant to carry the full weight of your work, your decisions, or your identity.

What I came to realise, slowly and then more clearly, is that passion can be loud, but it is not always loyal. It burns bright, and then it burns out. And burns you out.  And in the space that is left behind, you are often left wondering whether it was ever real.

That question stayed with me. Until a new one quietly arrived. What if the goal is not to feel passionate all the time? What if the goal is something steadier?

Why we should uncover our purpose

Purpose does not start with fireworks. It does not demand that you fall in love with your work every day. It does not ask you to be certain.

Purpose is quieter. It is not a rush, it builds slowly, through reflection. It asks whether you can keep showing up for this, even when it is not exciting. It lives in the things you are willing to do when no one is watching. It is not always thrilling, but it is often fulfilling in a way that passion cannot sustain.

What Ikigai taught me

At some point in my search, I came across the Japanese concept of Ikigai. A word that loosely means a reason for being. Unlike the Western ideal of passion, Ikigai does not centre on emotion or obsession. It invites something more grounded: alignment, usefulness, contribution, and joy. Where passion is often a feeling that flares up and fades, Ikigai connects with something deeper. It is not dependent on intensity or constant inspiration. It holds meaning even on the ordinary days. It reflects not just what excites you, but what sustains you, what matters to others, and what you can keep returning to with care.

Source: Human Capital Innovations

The popular version of the Ikigai diagram offers a way to explore that balance. It considers the intersection of what you love, what you are good at, what the world needs, and what you can be paid for. The centre of the diagram is often described as your Ikigai, but the space around it matters too. It reveals where things feel almost right, and where they quietly fall apart.

Doing what you love without structure might feel good for a while. Doing what pays without connection might be sustainable, but feel empty. Doing what the world needs without rest can slowly drain you.

Ikigai reminded me that alignment does not mean perfection. It means living in a way that makes sense, emotionally, practically, and ethically. It means looking at your life not as a puzzle to solve once, but as something you build with small, thoughtful choices over time.

It took me a while to realise that my purpose was never tied to a single product or project. It was something quieter, something that showed up again and again in different places, even when I wasn’t looking for it. What energises me most isn’t the outcome, it’s the shift, the moment something that felt stuck begins to move.

As a lifelong problem-solver, I’ve always been drawn to what’s tangled. The patterns we fall into without meaning to. The roadblocks we convince ourselves are permanent. I come alive when I can help someone see things differently. When clarity begins to return. When energy flickers back into a room or a conversation. That spark of insight. That gentle push forward. That’s what I care about.

And just as much, I care about inspiration. Not in the flashy, motivational sense, but in the way it quietly reframes how someone sees themselves. A different question, a new perspective, the language that unlocks something deeper. I try to offer that. This is the work I do now through The Resilience Equation. It’s about making space for people to reconnect with what was already there, under the noise. That’s what I return to.

When you don’t know yet

If you are still in the middle of your own search, here is something that might help. You do not have to know all your passions. You do not have to name your purpose. You do not need a grand plan to begin. You can start smaller. Ask yourself:

• What do I feel quietly drawn to, even when it is hard?
• Where do I feel useful in ways that others notice?
• What have I kept coming back to, even when I have drifted away from it?
• What feels calm and energising, not just exciting?

And maybe that is the real work—not chasing a passion, but staying close enough to yourself to recognise purpose when it starts to take shape.