The Path Not Marked

The trail behind the school wasn’t listed on any map. It curved behind the trees and disappeared into a stretch of woods that most students ignored. There were no signs. No warnings. Just a narrow break in the brush that looked like it had been made by footsteps that had no intention of being followed.

Jonah found it during his last week of school. He was walking to clear his head—too many college forms, too many questions from adults asking him what came next. He hadn’t answered any of them, not really. He wasn’t sure if he couldn’t or simply didn’t want to.

The path was quiet. Untamed. It didn’t ask anything from him. No decisions. No definitions. Just steps. He followed it through patches of uneven light, over roots and stones. There was no clear destination. But strangely, that felt honest. Because he didn’t have one either.

He returned the next day. And the one after. Not looking for direction, but for space. A place where he didn’t need a plan. Where each moment was its own reason. The path didn’t change. But he did.

One afternoon, he noticed a small wooden post stuck in the dirt. Someone had carved words into it: *“Some roads begin only when you stop needing to know where they end.”*

He didn’t know who had written it. But it felt like it had been waiting for him. Not to give him answers, but to remind him that questions were allowed. That the absence of certainty didn’t mean the absence of meaning.

By the time graduation came, Jonah still hadn’t filled out all the forms. He hadn’t solved his future. But he wasn’t afraid of it anymore. Because he’d learned that some of the best paths—the real ones—aren’t mapped at all. You walk them by choosing, not knowing.