The Road Not Taken

It started with a croissant. Or, more specifically, the decision of where I’d eat that croissant after class. It was my semester abroad in Paris—a time of wide-eyed discovery, romanticized daydreams, and a questionable number of berets. I found myself at a bakery counter near the Sorbonne, hesitating between two seats: one by the window, perfect for people-watching, and one in the back, where a group of French students were loudly debating philosophy. If this were a rom-com, I’d have chosen the back, joined their heated discussion, and ended up in a bittersweet love affair with a brooding poet named Baptiste.

Instead, I picked the window seat.

That choice didn’t feel momentous at the time, of course. It was just a question of where I’d sip my overpriced espresso. But here’s the thing about decisions: the ones that don’t seem important in the moment—the small, almost throwaway choices—are sometimes the most pivotal. Choosing the window seat ensured I’d be sitting there when another patron knocked over my coffee. A mortified young German woman, fresh from a Eurail excursion and clearly unused to Parisian scowls. Ten minutes after exchanging apologies, we were swapping travel stories and plotting an impromptu trip to Provence.

That was one of the more spontaneous (and delightful) decisions I’ve made, but it also cemented my belief that every so-called “road not taken” lingers somewhere in the periphery. I think about them more than I’d like to admit—those other paths, the ones that could’ve led to different versions of me with their own stories, heartbreaks, and croissants.

Sliding Doors, Relationship Edition

We’ve all had “Sliding Doors” moments in relationships, haven’t we? John Hannah's witty British accent aside, the idea of how different life could be is nothing short of fascinating. What if you hadn’t swiped right on someone? Or gone on that blind date your overly enthusiastic friend set up? What if you hadn’t talked yourself out of flirting with your barista?

For me, this moment came years ago, back in Montreal, when I was two years out of university and hovering in that awkward in-between phase where you try to act like an adult but still, occasionally, eat cereal for dinner. I had just started seeing someone—let’s call him Alex—a kind, basil-plant enthusiast with an impressive knowledge of obscure indie bands. He was sweet, safe, and utterly wrong for me in ways it took several months to fully realize. Romantic mismatches are like wearing the wrong shoe size: you can walk for a while, but eventually, you start limping.

During this same stretch, there was another person. A “what if” who came in the form of a friend of a friend at a summer bonfire party. Pierre. Yes, his real name—sorry, Alex. He was charming in an effortless, untucked-shirt sort of way and managed to make even lazy conversations about weather seem electric. We talked for hours, and for a split second, I imagined a version of myself boldly admitting my fleeting crush or texting him something coy the next day. In truth, I stayed loyal to my relationship with Alex, carefully folding Pierre into the file cabinet of missed opportunities.

Looking back, was Pierre my Baptiste moment? Maybe. Or maybe he was just a narrative detour designed to make me reconsider the story I was in. Either way, Alex and I broke up a year later—not because of Pierre, but because we both deserved shoes that fit.

The Myth of Perfect Paths

We romanticize the road not taken because it’s shrouded in mystery, don’t we? It’s human to think the pastures on that other side are greener, richer, or somehow more magnetic. But what I’ve learned (thanks to my overly analytical brain and a lot of chai-fueled reflection) is that the "perfect path" is a glittery unicorn; it doesn’t exist.

Life and relationships are more jazz than orchestral symphony—full of improvisation, wrong notes, and occasional brilliance. Tossing Pierre and Alex aside, let’s not forget I once dated someone who broke up with me because I didn’t share his commitment to CrossFit. True story.

The beauty of the road you don’t take isn’t about what you’ve avoided or missed. It’s about accepting that every choice, big or small, shapes who you are now. And if you like who you’ve become, then maybe those decisions weren’t so bad after all. Even the regrettable haircut phases.

Living with Choices (And Making Better Ones)

So, what do we do with the haunting awareness of alternate paths? How do we stop dissecting every decision, triple-thinking every choice, and torturing ourselves over every “what if”?

  1. Stop Glorifying What Might Have Been: Remind yourself that the "other road" wasn’t necessarily smoother. Pierre, for instance, could’ve been terrible at texting or passionately into Bitcoin. (I’m not judging, but I am raising a skeptical eyebrow.)

  2. Learn to Trust Your Gut: When it comes to relationships, our instincts often whisper the truth before our brains catch up. If a choice doesn’t feel quite right, it’s okay to pause, recalibrate—or, in my case, acknowledge the metaphorical blister from poor-fitting shoes.

  3. Let Go of the “Perfect Timing” Myth: I once overheard someone say, “Timing is just a polite excuse for things not working out.” Harsh, but accurate. Instead of putting your life and choices on pause for supposed perfect timing, act when it feels most authentic.

  4. Reframe Regret as Wisdom: Look, regret can be an insufferably clingy dinner guest. Don’t let it dominate the conversation. Instead, treat it like the sous chef who helps refine your tastes for next time.

The Real Road

I don’t regret choosing the window seat at that Parisian pâtisserie, just as I don’t regret the choices that eventually led me to Montreal cafés where I now write novels (and occasionally flirt with literary baristas). There are so many roads I’ve said no to, roads I’ve doubted or quietly mourned. But I figure the only real “wrong road” would’ve been standing still.

So here’s my unsolicited (but deeply earnest) advice: take the leap, embrace the missteps, and toast every questionable decision—even if it ends with you single on a park bench, clutching an inexplicably large baguette. At the end of the day, beautiful things grow in imperfect soil.

Plus, let’s face it—every croissant, no matter where it’s eaten, is still delicious.