Passion, Purpose, and the Space In Between

“Passion is the fire that drives the engine of purpose.” – Seneca

I sat in a conference room, surrounded by people who buzzed with excitement about their work. Their eyes lit up when they spoke, their enthusiasm spilling over into conversations about strategies, growth, and goals. And me? I nodded along, cracked a few one-liners, engaged enough to keep up, but inside, I felt detached. Passionless.

It wasn’t burnout. It wasn’t depression. It was just… dull.

For most of my life, I could probably be described as a passionate person. I went this way and that way, but almost always with a child-like enthusiastic passion for whatever new thing I was doing or whichever new challenge I was taking up.

But somewhere along the way, the fire dimmed.

I kept going through the motions, showing up, doing the work, being present in relationships, running the races—but without that spark. Without passion.

A Hundred Miles Without Fire

I dropped out of the Daytona 100 at mile 67. My feet were a disaster—blistered, bruised, and cut. A slight ankle sprain didn’t help. Could I have pushed on? Maybe. Probably. I didn’t really care one way or the other.

The truth is, I didn’t feel the passion. I wasn’t fighting for the finish. I wasn’t driven by purpose. I was just running because… well, that’s what I do.

For years, ultra-running had been a metaphor for my life—push through pain, keep moving forward, suffer well, and run the good race. But somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling the joy. It became routine, expected, a thing I did because it was part of my identity.

That lack of passion? It wasn’t just in the running. It was creeping into everything long before it crept into running—my work, relationships, and day-to-day life.

Well, almost everything. I did keep my passion for pizza and cinnamon rolls going strong.

The Weight of Passion and the Absence of It

At the Cowboy 200, my friend Jeff placed stones in honor of his late son, Myles, along the course. When he reached the finish, he collapsed, overcome with emotion—grief, love, and a passion so fierce it couldn’t be contained.

Inspired by him, I painted rocks for Daytona—some for Myles, some with motivational phrases, some just to make people smile. One rock simply said, “Dwayne Johnson.” (A rock named after The Rock? It made sense at the time.)

Those little stones became tiny sparks of connection. Runners looked for them, picked them up, carried them forward. It reminded me: Passion isn’t always a raging fire. Sometimes, it’s a flicker. A whisper. A small painted rock left for a stranger to find.

Finding the Sparks Again

I dwelled on my dwindling passion for a while, letting myself sit in it, trying to understand why the fire had faded.

And recently? While I can’t say the fire is roaring, there are sparks.

I’m feeling hints of it again—small moments where excitement flares, where something stirs inside me. The candle isn’t burning yet, but maybe—just maybe—it’s ready to be lit.

I don’t want to be just a rock. I want to paint my rock with passion.

For my work. For my relationships. For running, for adventure, for life itself.

Because without passion, even the strongest stone is just a rock.

And I want to be more than that.