My brother Marcus discovered his purpose when he was 8 years old.

A rogue thunderstorm had sent our new foal into a frenzy, bucking and kicking against the stall, feral and unhinged by the thunder booming across the valley.

Marcus spent the night soothing her, stroking her long mane until she finally fell asleep in the early morning hours. When he reentered our kitchen for breakfast, exhausted and smelling of horse stalls, he proudly declared that his compass had been filled - his purpose to help animals in need discovered and fulfilled.

I was six years old, and in awe. I remember turning to my mother and asking when I would find my purpose. She had laughed and patted me on the arm, reassuring me that the time would come, that she hadn’t found hers until she was nearly 16, that I just had to be patient and keep myself open to new experiences.

For months, I waited with baited breath, sure that my time would come soon. Years eventually passed, and I continued to search for my meaning, my utmost desire, as I grew into a tall, gangly teenager.

Most of my friends found their purpose towards our late teens, on the brink of adulthood. Large parties to celebrate those who’d found theirs became the norm. I attended each and every one, exuberant for them, happily anticipating my own.

The murmurs didn’t begin to start until my mid 20s.

“Taking your sweet time, eh?” My grandfather said, clapping me on my back at Christmas. “Not even a hint yet?”

“Not yet,” I replied, my mouth set in a tight smile. “I’m not too worried,” I added - a blatant lie.

“You’ll find it, sweetie,” my elderly boss told me, a sympathetic, pitying smile on her face. “You’re just a late bloomer is all.”

I nodded tightly, not bothering with any other response.

On the eve of my 30th birthday, I was in a deep depression, drinking my fifth beer alone in the crappy bar down the street from my apartment. There were only two other people in the smoke scented building, apart from the weathered bartender; an elderly man who was drunkenly singing along to a sad old western on the juke box, and an out of place businessman, typing away on a blackberry and drinking a glass of Chardonnay in the corner.

As I signaled the bartender for a refill, I heard the door open and shut behind me. Not bothering to look around, I watched from the corner of my eye as someone slid onto the stool next to mine.

I turned my attention back to my beer, content in my self pitying wallow. Briefly, I wondered if the bartender would allow me to take a beer to go, so that I wouldn’t have to be alone with my thoughts for the short trip from bar to apartment.

“That looks good, I’ll take one too,” comes a soft, musical voice from besides me. I chance a glance at the stranger, and catch a sight of a stunning woman, blonde hair falling in a silky sheet around her head, a light blue cashmere sweater belaying good style and quiet comfort.

She catches me looking and flashes a sweet smile. “I’m glad you’re here, so I don’t need to drink alone.”

My stomach churns, a mixture off too much beer and butterflies from her innocent charm. “That’s exactly why I came; I just got here a bit early to break the bar in.”

She tips her head back and lets out a deep laugh, and in that moment, it clicks. A flash of understanding, of recognition of why I was waiting all these years; my purpose is to make her happy.