Two years ago, as my friend Hunter’s birthday was approaching, I knew I wanted to get him something car-related, but I didn’t know what exactly. As I was scrolling through Instagram, an ad popped up for a Lego Porsche. 

Back in elementary school, my sister and I spent hours and hours together building Lego Friends, a series of characters. We were obsessed. But the fun wasn’t just in the putting together of pieces, we had just as much fun bringing the imaginary world to life.  

Seeing the Instagram ad brought back all those great memories. I clicked on the link, immediately intrigued. Up popped a Porsche 911 with a rear wing. It was perfect. A week later, I had all twenty bags, 50 pieces in each, spread out on my table and the instruction book open. But, unlike the Legos we built as kids, none of these bags were numbered. I stared at piles and piles of random pieces with no sense of guidance. 

Until middle school, I’d been kind of a Lego nerd consumed by Lego Elves and Star Wars Legos. I even made a vase for Mother’s Day filled with colorful Lego flowers. Bags not being numbered? This had never happened before. I flipped the bags over and over, convinced I was missing something. How am I supposed to do this without numbers? There was no time to exchange the car, so I called the person I always call to help me solve problems. I explained the dilemma to my mom, brainstormed solutions, and discussed consequences to each solution. Like always, she said, “I’m sure you'll make the right decision.”

I was faced with two choices: abandon the project or dial down.  

The challenge of completing what I started propelled me. I got up several times, frustrated and seriously considering tossing every piece into the trash. I had no idea which piece went to which step in the manual. If I used the wrong piece, the Porsche 911 might look like a junkyard car rather than an F1 competitor. Why couldn’t the bags have come with numbers? Why couldn’t this have been what I’d expected?

The structured process is what I love about Legos. I expected to idly build the car while (depending on my mood) watching Interstellar for the 100th time or listening to Harry Styles. That wasn’t going to happen. And yet, something inside me wouldn’t give up. I knew I was looking at days instead of hours, with over 1580 pieces and at least 300 steps. I left the pieces in their bags and just dug around, because I knew if I spread them all out on the table, I could lose a piece to my dog and lose my courage along with it. There were moments when I couldn’t find the correct piece, but I was in too deep. In those moments, I took a breath and saw myself showing Hunter the finished product, perfectly constructed.  

After three days, I placed the last piece on the Porsche.  

On the day of Hunter’s birthday, I asked him to close his eyes, and I walked him through the house. Once he was standing in front of the car, with a giant smile, I knew I’d made the right decision to stick with it. 

Looking back, that chaotic pile of unnumbered Lego bags taught me more than any perfect set ever could. I had to rely on patience, problem-solving, and a kind of inner strength I didn’t know I had. I learned that sometimes, life doesn’t come with instructions, or at least not the kind you're used to. But that doesn’t mean the result can’t be beautiful. What mattered wasn’t just the finished Porsche, but the decision to keep going when things didn’t match my expectations.