A few months ago, I found myself wondering what I had done wrong.
It’s not a question I expect to be asking in my seventies.
Like many people my age, I sometimes think about retirement, savings and financial security. I look around and see friends who have spent decades building stable careers and preparing for the future. Some seem to end up exactly where they planned.
Meanwhile, I find it difficult to explain my own life.
I spent most of it pursuing opportunities that interested me rather than opportunities that promised security. Looking back, I sometimes wonder if I should have been more practical.
One morning, after another round of comparisons, I found myself thinking a familiar thought:
Maybe I missed the boat.
The sentence stopped me.
Because one of the most important decisions of my life began while standing on the dock looking at the ship.
Several years ago, I was hired to teach US history, English, reading, math, and study skills to Navy and Marine personnel pursuing college courses while deployed overseas. My assignment will take me aboard the USS Cleveland during a Western Pacific deployment.
I remember standing on the pier before departure.
The ship seemed impossibly large.
Cargo was being loaded through open bays. Sailors moved quickly across the docks carrying gear and supplies. The forklifts disappeared into the ship’s steel interior. Everywhere I looked there was momentum, preparation and anticipation.
The USS Cleveland looks less like a ship than a floating city.
I stood there looking up, feeling something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
surprise
As a child, I used to dream of going to the sea.
I was fascinated by ships, maps, distant places and the possibility that life could be larger than Earth. While other kids dream of becoming something, I often dreamed of going somewhere.
Standing on that dock I felt as if I had stumbled upon one of those childhood dreams. I didn’t know exactly where the experience would lead. I just knew I wanted to go on a ship. I did so.
Life aboard unfolded in its own rhythm. Days were shaped by classes, duties, meals, conversations, and long stretches of ocean. Outside was the endless horizon. Inside was a community of people living in close proximity and working together while moving steadily toward destinations scattered across the Pacific Ocean.
I used to teach my class.
Sailors and Marines attended them.
But looking back, I realize I was learning my own lesson.
I learned that teaching is less about imparting information and more about paying attention. I learned that failure can be just as educational as success. I have learned that people who carry heavy responsibilities are often capable of extraordinary perseverance.
Most importantly, I learned that the world is much bigger than I imagined.
The ship crossed the ocean, but it also expanded my understanding of what a life could be.
Without realizing it, I began to follow a path shaped more by curiosity than certainty.
At the time, it seemed natural. It was only a few years later that I began to question it.
As I grew older, it became easier to compare my life to the lives of others.
Comparison is persuasive because it usually comes in the guise of wisdom. It tells us that we are realistic. responsible practical
But the comparison rarely asks whether we are using the right measuring stick.
The more I compared myself to people who chose different paths, the more dissatisfied I became. I focused on what I lacked rather than what I felt. I measured my life by the values that guided the decisions of others rather than my own.
Then one day, while thinking about the USS Cleveland, I asked myself a simple question.
If I could go back to that dock knowing what I know now, would I make any other choices?
Do I ask that younger version of myself not to board? Should I advise him to take a safer route? A more predictable future? A more secure life?
The answer came immediately.
No.
I will still step on board.
Because it wasn’t the smartest financial decision. No because it guarantees success. Because it didn’t lead exactly where I hoped.
I will step aboard because it makes me feel alive.
And that realization showed me something I had overlooked for years.
The problem was never that I chose the wrong life. The problem was that I began to judge my life by values that weren’t really mine.
The young man standing on that dock was not trying to improve his skills or optimize his future. He didn’t ask how the experience would improve his retirement. He was not calculating long-term income.
He was replying in surprise. Somewhere along the way, I forgot that.
Like many people, I have imbibed the belief that a life should be valued by what it produces, accumulates or achieves. These things are definitely important. We all need stability and security.
But there is another dimension to life. A cool one.
It asks if we are paying attention. We were curious. We say yes to opportunities that expand our understanding of ourselves and the world. Whether we have fully shown up for the journey we have been given. When I think of the USS Cleveland now, I no longer see it as just a ship.
I see it as a reminder.
A reminder that not every meaningful choice can be justified in advance. A reminder that wonder deserves a place in our decision-making. A reminder that the life we envy may not be the life we were meant to live.
Sometimes I still think about the boat I missed.
But then I remember standing on that dock, looking up at that huge ship, feeling the excitement of not knowing exactly where it would take me.
And I realize that if I were given the chance again, I would still walk down the gangway. No because I knew where the journey would lead. But something inside me already knew I wanted to go.
about Tony Collins
Edward “Tony” Collins, EDD, MFA, is a documentary filmmaker, author, educator, and disability advocate living with progressive vision loss from macular degeneration. Her work explores presence, care, resilience and the quiet power of small moments. She is currently completing books on creative scholarship and collaborative documentary filmmaking, and shares personal essays about substacks of meaning, hope, and disability. Connect: substack.com/@iefilm | iefilm.com
