If Life Had a GPS, It Would Look a Lot Like Math

Think of a particularly difficult maths problem you once managed to solve.

Now think of a difficult life decision you had to make.

If you’ve ever studied mathematics, whether recently or years ago, I’d be willing to bet that you used the same mental framework in both situations, even if you didn’t realise it at the time.

Let’s take a step back and look at both challenges from a clearer vantage point.

In both maths and life, we always begin with a starting point and aim for a destination.

In maths, it might be: “I know the function. What’s the turning point?” In life, it could be: “I’m stuck in this job. What’s next?”

The in-between, the terrain we must cross to get from one to the other, is what we might call the landscape of logic. In mathematics, navigating this landscape is expected. It’s the whole game. The better we understand the terrain and the tools available to us, the quicker and more accurately we reach our goal.

But in life? That’s where it gets messier.

And that’s exactly why a comment from someone on LinkedIn struck me so deeply. Robert Nichols, an Information Technology Manager in the U.S., left the following reflection on one of my earlier posts:

“Math is like a GPS through a landscape of logic. You can only get to your destination by following the right path—turning left when you're supposed to, not right. If you take a wrong turn, it's not the end of the journey. It's a cue to reroute. Once you know where you went off course, the next time, you're less likely to miss that turn.”

It stayed with me, because it doesn’t just describe how math works. It describes how mathematical thinking helps us navigate everything else.

Unlike a math problem, life’s problems don’t usually come with clear diagrams, formulas, or a neat final answer. There’s no clean whiteboard to sketch ideas on, no teacher to confirm that the working is heading in the right direction. Still, that doesn’t mean logic stops mattering. If anything, the need for clear reasoning becomes even more important, precisely because the stakes are higher, the feedback loop is slower, and the emotional weight is heavier.

The trouble is that many people do the opposite. Most major life decisions, whether about relationships, careers, money, or long-term goals, are made on the back of instinct, hope, and emotional inertia. There’s nothing wrong with having feelings. But when emotions steer the entire process, and logic only appears at the very end to justify what was already decided deep down, the result is often regret.

And the really interesting part is that people don’t usually notice it. The human brain is remarkably good at constructing rational-sounding explanations after the fact. We think we’ve reached a well-considered conclusion, but often we’ve just dressed up a gut feeling in the clothes of logic. We cherry-pick evidence, ignore contradictions, and build entire frameworks of thought around what we already want to believe. In the short term, this protects our ego. In the long term, it sabotages our path.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. And for people who’ve studied maths, even if it’s just the foundational levels at school, I believe there’s a better route that many already have some experience with. They’ve used it before, even if they didn’t notice. And it’s much more than a list of steps or a dry process of deduction. It’s a mental framework, a way of moving through uncertainty with structure.

It starts with the same questions we teach in maths classes: What do I know? What do I need to find out? What’s missing? What’s possible? These questions shape the decision-making process long before any solution is found. They help the thinker define the situation clearly, without rushing to conclusions. That’s already a massive step forward compared to the emotional model most people default to. Then comes the strategic phase, weighing possible paths, anticipating likely outcomes, checking assumptions, being ready to course-correct if things go wrong.

It’s also a framework that accepts error as part of the process. When students make a mistake in a maths problem, they’re not scolded, they’re encouraged to find the point where the logic broke down, and try again. This is something I try to carry into my life outside the classroom as well. The idea that making the wrong turn doesn’t end the journey, it just gives you more data for the next attempt. Emotions can still be present. They’re not the enemy. But they’re placed in a clearer context, alongside facts, constraints, probabilities, and patterns.

What I find most fascinating is that this kind of thinking doesn’t just help with decision-making. It begins to shape who we are. Over time, mathematical reasoning leaves behind habits that influence our entire mindset. It trains patience, because not all problems can be rushed. It cultivates precision, because clarity matters when details can change the outcome. It nurtures a quiet kind of humility, not the self-effacing kind, but the grounded recognition that certainty is rare, and that asking the right questions is often more powerful than having ready answers.

Perhaps most importantly, it builds resilience. In mathematics, mistakes are expected. They’re built into the process. Students learn to spot them, to diagnose them, and to move forward without shame. That kind of relationship with error is rare in other areas of life. But it’s vital. The people who are able to reflect, adapt, and try again without defensiveness or despair are the ones who can actually grow, in any field.

And just like a GPS, these internal skills make our range of movement wider. When you develop these tools, the map of life opens up. You start seeing routes and possibilities that others miss. The ability to navigate complexity, to reroute when needed, to hold logic and emotion in healthy tension, these are all things that can expand the scope of your world, and help you touch lives and places that would otherwise remain hidden from view.

That’s what mathematical thinking does. And for those who’ve experienced it, even briefly, it never really disappears. It becomes part of how you look at problems, part of how you weigh possibilities, part of how you live.