What am I going to do?

My ex-boyfriend asked me about my life, and I didn't answer. I wonder how many people actually live with purpose, deciding every day, and how many others just go with the flow, look at their lives, and find themselves in a reality they can no longer recognize. How did this happen? I had so many plans, and now I'm paying the mortgage, spending every Saturday driving my teenagers around. I remember clearly being 18 years old, feeling a burning desire to travel, yet an even bigger fear of anything and everything. I used to travel almost two hours daily to work—first walking, then taking the train, then the subway, then walking again. I stared at adults; they seemed unhappy. I told myself that was not going to be my future. But even if I’m not sitting on a subway heading to an office, isn’t this the same? Where is the excitement? Before COVID, I had—for many people—a great job. Sometimes I enjoyed it, but I didn’t love it. I could travel around the country, my schedule was flexible, and I was never bored. But still, I didn’t feel passionate about it. Maybe passion is something we have to force. Maybe some of us weren’t born passionate and need to try harder. I had a boyfriend whom I admired and loved, and we shared a simple, easygoing life. And then I decided to leave. I applied for a working holiday visa, something most people do in their 20s, but for me, it was in my 30s. I got it and bought a ticket to New Zealand. My then-boyfriend supported me but was clear in his decision to stay. The goodbye wasn’t tragic—I had planned a three-month trip to Europe with my sister, so I didn’t feel alone or scared, just extremely excited. I landed in New Zealand in June 2019, and he came in July. We spent a month together that was extremely painful. Every day, every kiss, and every hug tasted like goodbye. And then he left. Long distance didn’t work. I mean, we didn’t work long distance. To me, everything was new; to him, the house was unbearably empty. We talked on different channels, by the end of the year we were no longer the family we used to be, we just couldn’t tune into each other anymore. Life in New Zealand was exciting. I left my beloved Buenos Aires and landed in a tiny town called Twizel. Twizel is a mountain town where we get snow maybe twice a year. It’s down south in the South Island. It has a river and a man-made lake. It was built in 1968 because of the dam, and workers ended up staying. The population is around 2,000, and it is absolutely beautiful. Summers are hot, with long, dry days. In autumn, the town is painted in yellows and reds. Winter freezes everything—it's like a Disney movie where the whole town is covered in ice. And then spring is just breathtaking. You can smell the roselips, the daffodils, and the first rosebuds—it’s like I imagined The Secret Garden would be. Here, I became someone else. But now, I feel like I’m so used to it. When you travel to a new place with a different culture or even a completely different environment, your brain shifts into a new mode. You become like a sponge—your senses are on high alert, taking in everything around you. You see the world with amazement, without judgment, just learning and adapting. I keep thinking about the fact that one day I will die, and I want to truly live before that. I was listening to a podcast today, and the speaker said that the goal in life is happiness. And I thought to myself, Is it? I don’t think so. Happiness comes and goes, just like sadness. I agree with the idea that the real goal is to evolve—to challenge ourselves and grow into better versions of who we are. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.