Most invitations to a scripture come with a question at the door. Are you sincere. Are you ready. Is your reason for being here a good one. Book VII does something else: it names four kinds of people who come, and calls all four good.
They are the one in pain, the one who wants to know, the one who is after something, and the one who already knows — ārta, jijñāsu, arthārthī, jñānī (7.16). Read that list slowly, because two of the four arrive for reasons any strict reader would call impure. Distress is not a spiritual motive; it is a reflex. Wanting something is not a spiritual motive either. The person whose marriage is coming apart, and the person who would like the result to go their way, are both on the list — and the word used of all four is the same word.
Then, in the very next breath, the text says the knower is dearest, that he is My very self (7.18). Both things are said without embarrassment: every door is a real door, and there is still an inner room. It does not flatten the four into equals to be kind, and it does not use the ranking to turn anyone back.
The practical consequence is the whole point. Motive is not the entry fee; motive is the thing that changes on the way in. The one who came in pain and stayed becomes the one who wants to know. The one who came wanting a result finds, some months later, that he is still reading after the result came — and cannot quite say why. The text takes the long view of this: at the end of many births, the knower is the one who arrives (7.19).
So the honest answer to am I here for the right reason is: probably not, and come anyway. The reason is allowed to be repaired later. That is a more generous doorway than most traditions build, and it is in the text, not read into it.