Does Anything Ever Just Happen by Accident?

Picture this: It’s a warm spring day in Savannah, the kind where the azaleas are flaunting their colors, and the magnolias seem to be showing off. I’d just started working as a guide for historic home tours in the city, mostly because I needed the extra cash to cover my penchant for overpriced coffee table books and vintage perfume bottles I didn’t actually wear. Plus, I figured it’d be easy enough to rattle off a few facts about arched doorways and symmetrical gardens to tourists who were just happy to escape the humidity in an air-conditioned room.

What I wasn’t counting on? A visitor who unwittingly handed me the key to my purpose.

Let me back up for a second. At the time, I was in my early twenties and growing increasingly allergic to being asked, “What’s your five-year plan?” At family gatherings, the question loomed over me like the ghost of a disapproving aunt who didn’t think my humanities degree was going to "pay the bills." Truthfully, I didn’t have a plan. I was coasting—fine with being a little lost but less fine with the pitying looks people gave me.

Then, one afternoon, standing in a perfectly preserved drawing room straight out of an Edith Wharton novel, I launched into my spiel about floor-to-ceiling windows and Corinthian columns. A man in the group—they always introduce themselves like this—said, “Well, I’m a retired architect.” He nodded along as I explained the room’s history, and when I finished, he approached me.

“Have you ever thought about writing?” he asked.

I told him I wrote college papers and the occasional journaling attempt that sounded like rejected diary entries from a middle schooler who just discovered Sylvia Plath.

“No, I mean really writing. You brought that space to life. That’s a skill.”

I laughed it off, of course, because I was suspicious of compliments, especially those offered by strangers who reeked of bourbon after lunch. But later, his words began to follow me like a persistent shadow.

The Beauty in Happy Accidents

Was writing something I’d considered? Sure—every little girl who grows up on a steady diet of her hometown library and Nancy Drew mysteries probably dabbles in the idea of becoming “a writer.” But until that moment, the dream had been nothing more than a hazy watercolor in the back of my mind.

Looking back, I think it was hearing a total stranger—a retired architect no less, someone who knew a thing or two about creating something meaningful—affirm my storytelling ability that flipped a switch. Sometimes, we don’t need a signpost pointing us in the right direction; we just need a gentle nudge from someone who sees what we can’t.

After that encounter, I started small. When I wasn’t giving tours, I spent my evenings reading everything I could get my hands on about Southern history and culture. I played with words the way my father used to sketch façades in the margins of his blueprints—aimlessly at first, then with more intention each day. It was less about suddenly knowing what I wanted to do with my life and more about tuning into something I’d been circling around for years.

How to Stumble Into Your Purpose (Without Feeling Like a Failure)

Now, let’s get this out of the way: If you’re imagining a montage of me instantly becoming Savannah’s literary darling, sipping espresso at a chic café while penning a bestseller, real life is about to disappoint you. Finding your purpose often looks more like a game of bumper cars—messy, a little chaotic, but ultimately pointing you in the right direction.

Here’s what I’ve learned along the way, from one well-intentioned floater to another:

  1. Say Yes to Everything (At First):
    I didn’t sign up for that tour guide job because I thought it would change my life. I signed up because I needed money and it came with the promise of air conditioning. Sometimes pursuing your purpose starts with saying yes for no grand reason other than curiosity or practicality.

  2. Notice What Lights You Up:
    When I was guiding visitors through those homes, I realized I was more excited about the backstories—the families, the scandals, the hidden quirks in architecture—than the job itself. Pay attention to what makes you forget the clock exists.

  3. Accept (and Embrace) Your Detours:
    It took years, a lot of mediocre drafts, and some outright rejections before I found my creative voice. Whatever your calling is, it probably won’t present itself neatly wrapped with a bow. The path might look less like a straight line and more like Savannah’s famously twisty live oak branches.

  4. Be Open to Outside Perspectives:
    Sometimes the people around us see us more clearly than we see ourselves. That retired architect wasn’t doing me a favor or making polite conversation. He was being observant. Listen when someone offers an insight that feels oddly personal; they just might be onto something.

When Life Feels Like Southern Gothic Fiction

I often joke that my entire life feels just a little too cinematic at times. I still live in my hometown, where the Spanish moss drapes like curtains on a set, and my neighbors seem plucked from a Tennessee Williams play. But the truth is, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

That chance encounter on a tour turned into my first essay—which turned into me writing full-time, eventually publishing fiction. And even though I still roll my eyes a little when people talk about finding their “purpose," I can’t deny that it’s real. Purpose isn’t always something you chase or rationalize—it’s something that finds you in the pauses, in the moments when you stop forcing life to fit a mold and let it run loose instead.

And so, here’s my takeaway for you: If you’re out there, waiting for life to tell you what you need to do or who you need to be, try not to overthink it. Go host the tour, take the odd job, join the ceramics class just because. Pay attention to the unpolished bits of your life where beauty hides when no one’s looking. Sometimes, finding direction is less about a grand epiphany and more about standing still long enough to notice when purpose brushes past you with the gentle insistence of a breeze through an open window.

Trust me—and maybe that bourbon-loving architect on my tour—when I say: You’re closer to bumping into it than you think.