I Know Where I’m Going. I Just Don’t Know How to Get There.

On one-eyed faith, imaginal cells, and trusting the blueprint before the form appears.

Photo by oxana v on Unsplash

There’s a specific kind of anguish that comes not from being lost, but from knowing exactly where you want to go — and having no damn clue how to build a bridge to it.

That’s the heartbreak I’ve been living in lately.

It’s not confusion. It’s clarity without infrastructure.
A vision that’s already moved in, pacing the halls of your heart, while the outer scaffolding is still a tangle of raw beams and loose screws.

It’s like waking up in the house you know is meant to be yours… but realizing the plumbing’s not in yet, the roof is leaking, and the electricity? Not wired.
And still — you stay.
Because your heart knows it can’t rest in any lesser home.

I orchestrated a move.
I wrote a book.
I’ve vetted more businesses than I can count.
I even planned a trip months ago, trusting I’d have more income in place by now.

How then a year later am I still standing in the gap?

And it’s not that I want anything extravagant.
I’m not trying to win the lottery or go viral.
I’m not asking to be discovered, followed, or spiritually optimized.
I just want one solid “yes.”
A business that works.
A life that holds.
Something that reflects the real complexity of what I’ve built: freedom and groundedness. Community and creative solitude. Solid numbers and soul.

But this is the part nobody talks about:
The ache between vision and structure.
When your internal alignment is clear, but the outer support hasn’t caught up.
You’re not drifting. You’re not unclear.
You’re just in a stretch of time where the dream has grown faster than the scaffolding — and that’s both holy and hellish.

But here’s the thing I’m only just starting to name:
Not everyone moves like this.

Some people wait until the next step is solid.
They don’t move until the ground is paved, the HOA is formed, and the first Starbucks has broken ground.
And honestly?
Sometimes I envy them.

No sleepless nights.
No angst-filled mornings.
No praying that the land will backfill under their feet mid-leap.

But I’ve never been wired that way.
I don’t move when it’s safe.
I move when the truth in me gets too loud to ignore.

I’ve always lived in the land of act as if —
build the thing, say the yes, buy the ticket —
and then scramble, pray, and hope like hell that gravity is gentle this time.

It’s “if I build it, I hope they come” energy —
which looks poetic from the comfort of a movie seat,
popcorn in hand, music swelling.

Less so when you’re the one on the ground,
hammering your vision together
with borrowed tools and borrowed time.

This is the work of what I call “one-eyed-open faith.”
It’s not blind. It’s not blissful.
It’s gritty, practical, skeptical faith.
The kind where you believe in the vision with one eye, and stare down your dwindling bank balance with the other.

There’s a moment in biology that mirrors this perfectly.

When a caterpillar begins its metamorphosis, something wild happens:
inside the cocoon, new cells appear — called imaginal cells (yes, imaginal cells — you can’t make this stuff up).
These cells carry the blueprint of the butterfly.

Photo by Erik Karits on Unsplash

But at first, the caterpillar’s immune system tries to kill them.
Because those new cells are foreign. They don’t belong to the caterpillar identity. They’re disruptive. Threatening. Unproven.
The caterpillar sees them as a threat.
Because that’s what systems do — even dying ones — they resist the unfamiliar.

But the imaginal cells persist.
They gather. They multiply. They recognize each other.
And eventually, they reach critical mass.

That’s when the real transformation begins.
That’s when the transformation happens.
Not when it’s easy.
When it’s relentless.
The caterpillar dissolves into goo — when the old identity has finally released its grip.

And what was always hidden in the code?
Gets to take form.

And maybe that’s where I am.

Maybe I’m not failing. Maybe I’m just in the cocoon.
Maybe the part of me that’s scared, that wants to cling to the old scaffolding, that’s furious with the universe for not making it easier — maybe that’s just the immune system of my former life trying to hold the line.

But the imaginal cells are here.
The vision is here.
The blueprint of what I’m building is real — even if the form hasn’t emerged yet.

So if you’re also in this place — blueprint in one hand, bills in the other — I want you to know:
You’re not crazy.
You’re not behind.
You’re not asking for too much.

You’re just waiting for the scaffolding to catch up to the vision.
You’re just holding faith with one eye open.
And you’re just becoming someone your past self was never equipped to imagine.

That’s not failure.
That’s transformation.
And it’s scary as f*ck.