I have a confession to make. Well, actually, I have a few—but the only one that matters today is this.

I have been writing longer than I can remember. I wrote my first stories in elementary school, and I kept making more up as I went. As a teenager, I wrote fanfiction. During college, I studied writing and literature. I have been writing professionally for over 7 years now.

And I still have no idea what I’m doing.

I’m still making things up as I go, still making art and making mistakes in equal measure (at least, I like to tell myself so). And the thing that’s really scary about it is that I am starting to become convinced that I will never know what, exactly, I’m up to, or where it’s going to take me.

Some days I am a narrative designer. Other days I am a novelist. Monday through Friday, most weeks, I am an editor for at least part of the day. At night, I usually revert back to my original state—an avid reader who enjoys books without necessarily needing to pick them apart page by page, paragraph by paragraph. On the weekends, anything goes.

I have a plan, but it is not written in stone. It’s not the one I had five years ago, or even five months ago, and I guarantee it will change again, possibly even within the next five minutes while I write this post.

It’s unsettling, to say the least. Particularly on days like today, when the whole world feels just a little off-kilter and nothing seems to turn out quite the way it should. It would be nice, so nice, at times like this to have a steady vision to hold onto, a sturdy rock to cling to until the tide rolls out again.

But I don’t, not really. I have some vague ideas, and definitely some hopes and dreams, but nothing 100% concrete. Nothing that could not change if I wished or needed it to. And that’s okay. Because instead of holding on for dear life, I’m learning how to swim.

Writing to find your way forward is scary, but it’s exciting, too. Words are more flexible than sticks and stones and other, more traditional building materials—words can change and grow whenever you need a change of pace or direction. They’re also more durable. A good story can outlive even the sturdiest structure as long as there is at least one person around to tell it and keep it alive.

Someone once told me that I was lost, and that they hoped I would find my way—or, if not, that at least I would find a way to make peace with my lostness.

I think it’s possible to be both, to find your way but still be lost. After all, if you plan to find your own way forward, then don’t you have to get off the beaten path and get good and lost first? And if you’re making that path up as you go, aren’t you always going to be a little bit lost?

Writing isn’t about knowing. Writing is about finding out. It’s an exploration, a process of discovery, a chance to learn things you didn’t even know you needed to know. Sometimes you uncover an uncomfortable truth. Sometimes you have an epiphany. Sometimes you just find out you needed to vent, to get some things off your chest so you could go off and do other things, things you really want to do, without all that excess baggage dragging you down.

If you’re writing to find your way forward, don’t stop now. Keep writing. Keep creating or doing whatever it is you love that keeps you from unmaking yourself. Whether it’s just for the next five minutes or the next five years—or even the next 50—it’s okay. Rest when you need to, change course if you must, but never surrender.

If you’re worried about being lonely, remember: You’re not alone.

I’ll be out there in the wilderness with you, doing the exact same thing.