Not because they lie, but because they don’t care about you. They’ll point north whether you’re in love, lost, or late for lunch. Which, I think, is both admirable and deeply rude.

When I was a kid, I tried to fix that problem by buying one that was more… emotionally available. Captain Jack Sparrow had one, the kind that didn’t point north but to what he wanted most in the world. I figured that would be handy, because I never knew what I wanted.

Even at an ice cream shop. My sister would walk in and say, “Chocolate,” before she’d even seen the menu. I’d stand there like I was choosing the direction of my entire life between vanilla and pista. I’d picture the newspaper headline: Boy Chooses Wrong Flavor, Lives with It Forever.

So when I got my compass, I decided I’d let it choose for me. It was all going well up until that point. The compass pointed, I followed.

Then one day, it pointed to eggs.

Now, I hate eggs. I’m also allergic to them. But this was a “trust the process” kind of moment. So I ate six raw eggs.

Two hours later, I was lying in my mother’s lap, throwing up and contemplating the fragility of faith. She looked at me the way only mothers can and said, “Next time, listen to your stomach instead.”

The next day she took me for ice cream, to celebrate my survival. I stood there again, between vanilla and pista, stuck in a war between logic and panic.

The people in line sighed loudly. My heart started racing. My throat tightened. I was eight years old and already terrified of disappointing strangers I’d never see again.

Then a man dressed as a pirate touched my shoulder and said, “Go for coconut.”

My sister frowned. “Who are you supposed to be?”

He puffed his chest. “Captain Jack Sparrow,” he said proudly, though he looked more like a plumber who’d borrowed an eyeliner pencil.

There was a Disney-themed day going on at the shop. But my young, naive mind believed him.

“Did you check your compass?” I asked thinking that he was the real Captain Jack Sparrow

He blinked, confused, then smiled. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

So, I ordered coconut.

Of course, it was disgusting.

I ran back to him, holding the melting scoop like proof of betrayal. “This tastes awful!” I said.

He chuckled. “Then why’d you order it?”

“Because you said your compass pointed to it!”

He leaned down, still smiling, and asked, “Why didn’t you check your own compass?”

That’s when I told him I didn’t know where mine was. That I couldn’t see what I wished for anymore.

He pointed to my chest. “Sure you do. It’s right there. It’s called a heart. It doesn’t always shout; sometimes it whispers. But it knows.”

I didn’t get it then. But I do now.

Because hearts are terrible navigators. They lead you into storms and bad decisions and love and regret. They’ll tell you to stay when you should leave and to leap when you should think. They’ll make you cry over people who barely noticed you and forgive those who didn’t deserve it.

And yet, for all that, they’re still better than compasses.

Because a compass will always show you north, but it will never show you home.

I think that’s what that pirate meant. That sometimes your heart won’t lead you somewhere beautiful, just somewhere honest. And maybe that’s enough.

My mother and sister came over just in time to see me crying, holding a ruined ice cream and a handful of wisdom I didn’t yet understand.

I stood in line again. This time, I ordered mango.

Before leaving, I found the pirate and gave him another ice cream and a napkin with a note scribbled in shaky handwriting:

“My compass pointed to the mango island.

I’m going to sail through that wave of sprinkle toppings.

- One pirate to another.”

He laughed and saluted me.

I walked away with my ice cream in one hand and something steadier in the other - my heart. My compass.

Years later, I still hesitate over menus. I still worry about decisions. I still don’t trust eggs. But whenever I get stuck, I press a hand to my chest and wait for the faintest pull, the quietest direction.

It doesn’t always make sense. It often leads to chaos.

But I follow it anyway.

Because that’s the thing about hearts. They may not always point north.

But they always point true.

And maybe, just maybe, to remind you that mango really does taste better than coconut.