My six-year-old granddaughter has already mastered the art of the dramatic exit. Whenever she’s angry, she loves nothing more than delivering a theatrical huff, marching through the house, and slamming the door with maximum force.
It’s hilarious to watch, but if we’re being honest, most of us never really outgrow that instinct.
Whether it’s a six-year-old making a point, an adult leaving a job, or someone finally walking away from a toxic situation, there is an undisputed thrill in slamming the door on something that hurts or frustrates us. Leaving feels like freedom. It feels like taking back control.
But here’s the quiet truth we often ignore in the heat of departure: Leaving is only half a movement.
If you step onto a highway just to get off the street you were on, you’re not traveling—you’re just drifting. Leaving tells us what you’re running from. It says nothing about what you’re building towards.
Without a target, departure is just escape. And escape, without direction, eventually leads right back to where you started—just with different scenery.
When you step out into the unknown, the vast universe doesn’t ask you why you left. It asks you a much harder question:
“Where are you going?”
A destination doesn’t have to be a spot on a map. It can be a boundary you’ve decided to keep, a standard of peace you refuse to compromise, or a vision for who you want to become. But it must exist. You cannot navigate a ship if your only strategy is steering away from the shore.
My granddaughter usually stays behind her slammed door for about three minutes before she realizes she left her toys in the living room—and suddenly, the exit loses its power.
That’s the danger of the dramatic departure. Once the door clicks shut and the adrenaline fades, you’re left standing in the quiet room of your own choices. You can’t live in the doorway forever.
So as you stand at your own personal starting line today, stop looking back at the door you just shut:
Name your target. What does your “next” look like?
Define the value. Are you moving toward peace, clarity, creativity, or independence?
Take the step. Move not just away from the old, but directly into the new.
It’s fine to celebrate the courage it took to leave. But don’t stay parked in the driveway of your exit. Set the coordinates, look at the horizon, and ask yourself:
Where are you going?
Then, get moving in that direction.
Where Are You Going?
It is easy to pack up the weight of the past,
To burn bridges and break from the cast,
To say, “I am finished, I’m done, I am through,”
And walk from the places that no longer serve you.
For leaving takes courage, and leaving takes nerve,
To step off the track at the edge of the curve.
But running from the shadow is not reaching the light,
And walking away does not make a path right.
A doorway is nothing without what’s inside;
An exit is empty if you are just trying to hide.
So pause at the border before you take flight,
And look past the dust that you kicked up in the night.
Don’t tell me about the burdens you left on the floor,
Or the people that you left on the other side of the door.
The road doesn’t care what you’re leaving behind—
It only demands what you’re hoping to find.
So turn your face forward, let go of the track,
Stop measuring progress by looking back.
The departure is over. The ashes are cold.
Now tell me the story that’s yet to be told:
Where are you going?
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