A few months ago I found myself wondering if I had made a mistake.
This was not a question I would have expected 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 have arrived exactly where they were designed.
Meanwhile, my own life is harder to explain.
I spent most of that pursuing opportunities that interested me, not opportunities that promised security. Looking back, I sometimes wonder if I should have been more practical.
One morning, after falling into yet another round of comparisons, I found myself having a familiar thought:
I may have missed the boat.
The sentence stopped me.
Because one of the most important decisions of my life began as I stood on a dock and looked at a ship.
Years ago, I was hired to teach US history, English, reading, math, and study skills to Navy and Marine Corps personnel taking college courses overseas. My assignment would take me aboard the USS Cleveland during a deployment to the Western Pacific.
I remember standing on the pier before departure.
The ship looked incredibly large.
Cargo was loaded through open spaces. Sailors moved quickly across the docks, carrying equipment and supplies. The forklifts disappeared into the ship’s steel interior. Everywhere I looked, there was movement, preparation and anticipation.
The USS Cleveland looked less like a ship than a floating city.
I stood there staring up, feeling something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Miracle.
As a boy, I dreamed of going to sea.
I was fascinated by ships, maps, distant places, and the possibility that life could be bigger than the world we already know. While other kids seemed to dream of becoming something, I often dreamed of going somewhere.
Standing on the dock, I felt like I had stepped into one of my childhood dreams. I didn’t know exactly where the experience would lead. All I knew was that I wanted to perform. So I did it.
Life on board the ship unfolded in its own rhythm. Days were made up of classes, assignments, meals, conversations, and long stretches of ocean. There were endless horizons out there. Inside was a community of people who lived and worked closely together as they made steady progress towards destinations scattered across the Pacific Ocean.
I taught my classes.
Sailors and Marines attended theirs.
But looking back, I realize that I was self-educated.
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 bear heavy responsibilities are often capable of extraordinary endurance.
Most importantly, I learned that the world is much bigger than I imagined.
The ship crossed the oceans, but at the same time it expanded my sense of life.
Without realizing it, I began to follow a path shaped more by curiosity than certainty.
At the time, it seemed natural. It wasn’t until years later that I began to question it.
The older I got, the easier it was to compare my life to other people’s lives.
The comparison is compelling because it usually comes disguised as wisdom. It shows that we are realistic. Responsible. Practical.
However, comparison rarely asks whether we are using the right measuring stick.
The more I compared myself to people who chose other paths, the more dissatisfied I became. I focused more on what I lacked than what I experienced. I measured my life by values that guided the decisions of others, not my own.
Then one day, while thinking about the USS Cleveland, I asked myself a simple question.
If I could go back to the dock knowing everything I know now, would I make a different choice?
Would I tell the younger version not to get in? Would I advise him to take a safer route? A more predictable future? A safer life?
The answer came immediately.
Not.
I would still take off.
Not because it was the smartest financial decision. Not because it guaranteed success. Not because it led me exactly where I expected.
I would get on board because it made me feel alive.
And this realization showed me something I had been ignoring 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 were never really mine.
The young man on the dock was not trying to maximize efficiency or optimize his future. He didn’t ask how the experience would improve his pension. He did not count on long-term returns.
He answered in astonishment. I forgot this somewhere along the way.
Like many people, I have imbibed the belief that a life should be measured by what it creates, collects, or achieves. Of course they matter. We all need stability and security.
But there is another dimension to life. A quieter one.
He asks if we were paying attention. Whether we remained curious. Whether we said yes to opportunities that expanded our understanding of ourselves and the world. Regardless of whether we have fully appeared on the path given to us. When I think of the USS Cleveland now, I no longer think of it as just a ship.
I consider it a reminder.
As a reminder, not all sensible choices 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 worry about the ships I may have missed.
But then I remember standing at the docks, staring at that huge ship, and feeling the excitement of not knowing exactly where it was taking me.
And I realize that if I had the chance again, I would still go up the aisle. Not because I knew where the road led. But because something in me already knew that I wanted to go.
About Tony Collins
Edward “Tony” Collins, EdD, MFA, is a documentary filmmaker, author, educator, and advocate for people with disabilities living with progressive vision loss due to macular degeneration. His works explore presence, care, resilience and the quiet power of small moments. She currently writes books on creative scholarship and collaborative documentary filmmaking, and shares personal essays on meaning, hope, and disability on Substack. Connection: substack.com/@iefilm | iefilm.com
