Years ago, after finishing high school, I found myself stuck. I had no idea what came next, and I was reluctant to join college without knowing what I wanted to study.

Growing up, I had plenty of answers to the question, “What do you want to be?”

A doctor. Then an engineer. A chef. A president. A pilot. A neurosurgeon. At one point, a lawyer—mostly because I liked how they dressed.

Apparently, choosing a career was easier when it was imaginary.

But when the time came to make a real decision, I felt overwhelmed. People called me a jack of all trades, yet I could not work out which interest to pursue.

A new school year began. My friends went to college, found jobs, or traveled overseas. Meanwhile, I stayed in Kenya, browsing university catalogues and hoping something would finally make sense.

My family was living in another country, and I had not yet built a circle of friends nearby. Without school or a job to give my days some direction, I felt lonely, confused, and increasingly unsure of myself.

I wanted God to speak clearly. Preferably with a course name, a university, and instructions on how to pay for it.

Instead, my next step came through a kitchen.

Money was tight, and sometimes there was barely enough for food. I had not managed my previous pocket money wisely, and I felt embarrassed to call home and ask for more.

One evening, while browsing the internet, I came across a children’s home near where I lived. They needed volunteers in the kitchen. There was no pay, but meals were provided.

At that point, the meals alone sounded like a very convincing reason to apply.

I went the next day. My interview and my first day of work happened on the same day.

For the next three months, I spent my days at Thomas Barnardo’s Children’s Home, working from eight in the morning until five in the evening. We prepared and served meals for more than 500 children each day.

That place gave me much more than something to do. I made friends. I ate regular meals. I began to feel useful and connected to people again.

Somewhere along the way, I also learned to change babies’ diapers—a qualification I had somehow overlooked in all those university catalogues.

One of the people who made the greatest impression on me was Joseph, the chief cook.

Joseph knew his way around pots, pans, knives, and fire. He taught me how to chop onions, tomatoes, and meat properly. Watching him work, I could see that he loved what he did. Feeding the children and staff mattered to him.

He told me he woke up early because he wanted to get to “his kitchen.” That was how he spoke about it, with affection and a sense of responsibility.

I had been searching for something that would make me excited about my future. Joseph was showing me what it looked like to bring care and purpose to the work already in front of him.

As we cooked, we talked about life.

He listened to my questions and encouraged me to see that this uncertain season could still hold something worthwhile. He reminded me to bring my worries to Jesus and to keep taking the steps available to me.

Joseph was older than I was, and he shared a name with my dad. That gave him a little extra authority in my eyes. I respected him, and his words stayed with me.

Somewhere between chopping onions and stirring enormous pots, I began to feel hopeful again.

I still did not have my whole future figured out. But I had people to see, work to do, and someone who believed I had something to offer. Those things made a difference.

Looking back, I smile at the thought that some of my dreams began taking shape in a kitchen. I arrived because I needed food. Over time, I also found friendship, encouragement, and room to think about who I might become.

Joseph remains a meaningful part of my story. I do not know whether he realized how much those conversations helped me, but I remember them with gratitude.

That season taught me to pay attention to the people and opportunities close by. I had been looking so far ahead that I could hardly see what was within reach.

I believe God cared for me through that children’s home, through the work, and through Joseph’s kindness. The answers I wanted took time, but there was care for me along the way.

Perhaps you are in a season like that now. Other people seem to be moving forward, and you are still trying to work out where to begin.

It can feel lonely. But you do not have to understand your whole future before taking a worthwhile step today.

Ask for help. Try something. Offer what you can. Be willing to learn from people whose lives look different from yours. You may discover an interest, build a friendship, or find a little more courage for tomorrow.

And if you need support, you are allowed to receive it. I am grateful that my need for a meal led me to a place where I could both contribute and be cared for.

I still carry something of that kitchen with me: Joseph’s encouragement, the friendships, the children, and the hope that slowly returned.

I went there wondering what would become of my life. For three months, I learned to cook, serve, listen, and trust God with the questions I could not yet answer.

That was a good place to begin.