My dear son,
Ibought this for you in Reykjavík without knowing exactly why my hand reached for it before my mind could explain itself. It was hanging quietly, unassuming, silver against black cloth, not shouting for attention the way souvenirs often do. I felt something old in it. Something patient. Something that did not need to persuade me. That is usually how the most important things arrive.
This symbol is called Vegvísir (Icelandic for “wayfinder”).
An old Icelandic stave meant to be carried by those who feared getting lost. Not just lost in fog or snow or the long darkness of winter, but lost inside themselves. The belief was simple and humble. If you carried it, you would find your way through harsh conditions even when you could not see the road ahead. Not because it would remove danger, but because it would remind you how to move through it.
That distinction matters.
I want to tell you why.
There will be moments in your life when the map disappears.
When the plan you trusted dissolves.
When the rules you followed no longer seem to apply.
You will feel disoriented.
You will feel late.
You will feel as though everyone else was given instructions you somehow missed.
This is the human condition.
What this symbol taught me is that guidance does not always come as direction. Sometimes it comes as orientation.
Look closely at it. It does not point one way. It points many. Each arm reaches outward, different in shape, different in direction, all anchored to a single center. That center is the part I want you to remember.
The world will offer you a thousand paths and shout that one of them is the right one. It will reward certainty. It will praise speed. It will confuse movement with progress. In those moments, the danger is not choosing wrong. The danger is forgetting where you are standing.
The center is not an answer. It is an anchor.
When you do not know what to do, return to what you value.
When you do not know who to trust, return to what feels honest in your body.
When your thoughts race and the noise gets loud, return to your breath, to your feet on the ground, to the simple fact that you are here and alive and capable of taking the next step without needing to see the entire road.
This symbol does not promise safety. Iceland never promised safety either. That land is forged by fire and ice. Volcanoes and glaciers. Creation and destruction living side by side without apology. The people there did not survive by pretending the land was gentle. They survived by respecting it. By preparing for uncertainty. By learning how to move when conditions turned against them.
That is what I hope you learn too.
You do not need a life without storms.
You need the ability to keep walking when the weather turns.
You need the humility to admit you do not know everything.
You need the courage to stay present instead of panicking when the future refuses to clarify itself.
There will be times you feel broken open.
Loss will come.
Disappointment will visit.
You will make choices that do not age well. You will look back and wish you had known then what you know now. That ache is not evidence of weakness. It is evidence of growth.
The Wayfinder does not erase regret. It teaches you how to continue with it.
I think about you carrying this someday, maybe without thinking much of it, maybe tucked under a shirt or resting against your chest. I imagine you touching it absentmindedly during a hard conversation.
Or when you feel alone in a crowded room.
Or when you are standing at the edge of a decision that feels too big for your current version of yourself.
In those moments, I hope you remember this.
You are not required to have it all figured out to move forward. You are not late to your life. You are not behind. You are becoming.
Direction emerges from movement, not the other way around.
There is something else in this symbol that matters.
Each arm is different, yet none cancel the others out.
Strength and caution.
Action and restraint.
Logic and intuition.
You do not have to choose only one version of yourself to be whole.
You can be thoughtful and brave.
You can be gentle and firm.
You can want more while still being grateful for what is.
The world will try to simplify you. Do not let it.
Carry complexity with grace.
And if one day you find yourself truly lost, not geographically but spiritually, remember that being lost is not the opposite of being found. It is part of the process. The fog does not mean you have failed. It means you are somewhere new.
This symbol was never magic. Its power was never in the metal. Its power lived in the reminder it offered to frightened people facing vast landscapes and uncertain futures.
You do not survive by controlling the terrain.
You survive by learning how to move through it with awareness and respect.
I cannot walk your path for you. I would not want to. Your life will need to be yours in ways mine never could be. But if I can leave you anything, let it be this quiet permission.
You are allowed to go slowly.
You are allowed to change your mind.
You are allowed to trust yourself even when you feel unsure.
The way forward does not always reveal itself in straight lines.
Sometimes it spirals.
Sometimes it doubles back.
Sometimes it asks you to stand still long enough to listen.
Wherever you go, whatever weather you face, may you remember your center.
May you move with integrity even when certainty is unavailable.
May you learn to walk without needing guarantees.
That is what this object means to me.
That is what I hope it becomes for you.
Dad
—
This post was previously published on medium.com.
Love relationships? We promise to have a good one with your inbox.
Subcribe to get 3x weekly dating and relationship advice.
Did you know? We have 8 publications on Medium. Join us there!
***
–
Photo credit: DA VECTOR On Unsplash
