The Day Self-Doubt Got the Boot
The day it all clicked for me, I was covered in barbecue sauce. Not a poetic image, I know, but bear with me. It was one of those sticky Tennessee afternoons, the kind where the air’s so thick you could spread it on cornbread. I was sitting on a folding lawn chair at a neighborhood potluck, holding a paper plate that was steadily losing the battle with mac and cheese, ribs, and a gloppy slice of blackberry cobbler. What can I say? We don’t travel light in the South—not even with our food.
I didn’t know it then, but this gravy-stained afternoon would be the moment I accidentally discovered what I was born to do: tell stories. And all because of a karaoke contest, a hesitant conversation with a stranger, and a lesson I’ll never forget about what happens when you stop apologizing for being exactly who you are.
Finding Harmony in the Chaos (With Extra Sauce)
Let me set the stage: I was fresh out of college, working at a job that involved far too many spreadsheets and far too few creative outlets. You know the type—eight hours a day in a nondescript gray office that smelled faintly of burnt coffee, questioning every life choice that brought me there. Was this it? Was this the exciting adulthood artists like Taylor Swift wrote about? (Spoiler alert: No, it was not.)
Anyway, back to the potluck. Someone announced a karaoke contest, and before I could duck behind a tray of deviled eggs, my mom was volunteering me to perform. Classic Mom move. You’d think I would’ve been better at dodging her enthusiasm by now, given that she once signed me up for a belated teenage tap-dance recital without asking.
When I climbed onto the makeshift plywood stage, I wasn’t exactly brimming with confidence. My song choice? The ultimate crowd-pleaser, Dolly Parton’s “Jolene.” Normally, I would’ve hesitated—worried about cracking a note or butchering a classic—but for some reason, that day, I leaned in. Maybe it was the combination of sunshine, sweet tea, and the sticky camaraderie of Nashville summers, but man, I sang my little heart out.
It wasn’t perfect, but in that imperfection lay something magical. Something raw. People laughed when I improvised a line about the wasp buzzing too close to my face, and they cheered when I hit a challenging high note. In the span of three minutes, the audience and I shared something real. And as I stepped off stage, I realized how good it felt to connect with people—not despite my quirks, but because of them.
The Stranger Who Changed Everything
What really cemented this moment as a turning point, though, was what happened 15 minutes later. A woman I’d never met approached me near the dessert table, looking like she’d dyed her hair with red Kool-Aid. She introduced herself as a local songwriter and said, “You’ve got that thing—you know, the storytelling spark. Ever thought about writing?”
At first, I laughed it off. “Oh, just for fun,” I told her, thinking about the private stash of half-written lyrics and bad poetry buried in my closet like some embarrassing secret. But something in her expression stopped me. She wasn’t joking.
“Fun can turn into your whole life if you let it,” she said, scooping a dangerous amount of banana pudding onto her plate.
Those words sat with me longer than they probably should have. In the following weeks, they echoed in my mind every time I found myself daydreaming at work or jotting down lines of dialogue on the back of grocery receipts.
I started paying attention to what lit me up: people’s stories, my own quirky observations about life, the rhythm of language itself. I began writing short essays and songs after hours, slowly letting those hidden scraps of creativity take up space.
What I Learned About Trusting the Mess
What surprised me the most about discovering my purpose was how much it felt like coming home. Not in some Hollywood montage way, where everything magically falls into place. No, more like finding your favorite pair of jeans in the back of the closet after convincing yourself they’d been lost forever. It felt comfortable, real, and distinctly…me.
Here’s what that experience taught me, and hopefully, it might light a spark for you too:
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Your “thing” doesn’t have to start with fireworks.
Sometimes, it’s just a flicker—a weird tug at your gut whenever you sing, write, paint, or solve math problems in the middle of the night. Your big whizz-bang “aha!” moment might not come with flashing lights, but that doesn’t make it any less real. -
Listen when others point out your spark.
Too often, we’re quicker to acknowledge what we’re bad at than what we’re naturally gifted in. If someone takes the time to say, “Hey, you’re kind of amazing at this,” maybe lean into that praise instead of batting it away like a humble house cat. -
Screw perfection.
I mean this in the kindest way possible, but no one cares if you nail every note or punctuation mark. They care that you show up as a living, breathing, flawed human being. People connect with your honesty, not your airbrushed highlight reel. -
Start small—and start messy.
Writing about the sticky drama of family potlucks wasn’t exactly Pulitzer-worthy material, but it ignited something in me. Don’t wait for the “perfect” right time or project to take a crack at what you love. Dip your toes into the chaos and watch how it transforms.
Where It’s Led Me—And Why It Matters for You
These days, my life looks wildly different. I’m no longer pulling 9-to-5s under fluorescent lights—I’m writing stories (like this one!) about love, life, and all the beautiful messiness in between. I’ve written songs for local musicians and published essays that touch people I’ll never meet. The joy in these connections, these shared moments of “me too,” feels like a second heartbeat.
The biggest thing I’ve learned on this journey—and maybe the thing I wish someone had whispered in my ear sooner—is this: Your purpose isn’t some grand mystery waiting for a scavenger hunt. It’s probably hanging out right under your nose, served with ribs and mac and cheese on a paper plate. You don’t need to have it all figured out. You just need to start where you are and trust that connecting with your passion will lead you to where you’re meant to be.
So go ahead: sing the song, write the words, ask the stranger at the dessert table what lights them up. The rest has a way of sorting itself out, sauce stains and all.
