I was a doodler when I was a kid. Not that I was an artist, but enjoyed drawing lines. I still do—Post-Its on my desk have random scribbles, and meeting agendas have stars and sunbursts around the border. But my favorite high school–era doodle was just a mess of scribbles. I’d draw squiggly lines over and over each other, leaving spaces in between to color in later. It didn’t mean anything. I just liked making nonsense lines.

As I was trying to think up ways to describe the direction of life in general, I thought of those squiggly doodles. Life isn’t a straight or neatly organized line, but often feels like a dense blob of indecipherable, overlapping chaos.

I started a new job, again. I’ve admitted to industry friends that it’s almost embarrassing, having announced a new job every two years. I felt guilty for leaving the last one because, when I first accepted the position, it felt right. It was everything I thought I’d been looking for. When I started to consider leaving, I thought it a personal failure. I wasn’t only letting myself down, but worse: I was letting down God. I was giving up on the direction He’d lead me toward.

But that’s why life squiggles. I was trying to come to terms with my mistake, but… there was no mistake. I’ve always told myself there are no mistakes, but I wasn’t living by my own principle. The job wasn’t a mistake. Moving away wasn’t a mistake. It was a learning experience, a necessary step in my life, and the direction I was meant to go. Even if it wasn’t permanent.

God will push you in a direction, but it’s rarely a straight line. It takes sharp turns and bumpy back roads. Sometimes you may end up in the same place as before, but with a clearer path. Or a better car. Or just smarter. I don’t pretend to understand how it works, but I know He’s in charge.

So I’ve taken a turn, again. I’m back working in Manhattan (which I was more than happy to leave before), and packing up for a new apartment. I won’t say “I know what I’m doing this time,” because I never really do. But I’m more at peace, and in better spirits overall. It’s a strange feeling, because it almost seems too easy. Except it’s not, because I’m in the middle of packing and learning how to do a new job and relearning the secrets to commuting.

It’s like now, instead of drawing all those wayward scribbles, I’m coloring in the spaces. I’m starting to piece together a story, rather than re-writing the outline. Now that I think about it, I suspected something like this would happen: During RCIA, I knew things would just make sense when I was in the right place, spiritually. That once I was part of the Church, everything else would fall into place.

I thought the “falling into place” was the “new” job, two years ago. I thought it was getting out of Manhattan. I thought I needed major, life-altering changes, because being Catholic was also a major, life-altering change.

But being Catholic isn’t about changing who I am. It’s the outline, but not the entire story. It is, in a sense, the scribbles. After a while, you have to stop doodling and get to work. You have to fill in the spaces, complete the picture, write the story. I’m still me. I may have ended up in the same geographic location as before, doing the same sort of job, and living in the same relative area. But nothing is really the same.