It started with croissants. Not metaphorical ones, but actual, flaky, buttery pastries. My parents ran a café in Vancouver, the kind of place where neighborhood regulars nursed oat lattes as they debated politics or gossiped about their yoga instructors. For most of my childhood, I was on the periphery of these conversations, refilling napkin dispensers and daydreaming about my future as a world-famous writer (or maybe a marine biologist—my career goals were fickle, much like my taste in boy bands).

Fast forward to my university years. While other students partied at frat houses or crammed for exams at the UBC library, I spent my weekends helping out at the café. I didn’t mind. I liked eavesdropping on people’s stories, the way strangers’ lives often dovetail in unexpected ways. Little did I know, that tiny café full of caffeine and chatter would hold the key to my purpose. But let’s rewind a bit and give you some context.

The Incident That Changed Everything

It was a dreary Vancouver morning, the kind that feels like living inside a drizzle-soaked Instagram filter. I was behind the counter, not particularly thrilled about life but caffeinated enough to get through it. The café was buzzing with its usual crowd when in walked her.

Her name was Lily (I’d only learn this later), and she spoke with a kind of urgency typically reserved for those running late to catch the last SkyTrain. “Quick! Two croissants and one of those matcha things!” she said, gesturing wildly at the pastry display. She looked like someone grappling with a lot—messy bun, yoga mat under one arm, and—wait for it—two different shoes. One white sneaker, one black boot.

I couldn’t help myself. “Fun new trend?” I asked, half smiling as I handed over the matcha latte.

She sighed dramatically. “No, I just got dumped and wasn’t paying attention to anything this morning,” she said. “Like, WHO ends a relationship over text at 6 a.m.?”

Friends, let me tell you, I wasn’t prepared for what happened next. Lily’s brief comment became the start of a 20-minute conversation at the counter. Others joined in. Soon, the café became a kind of group therapy session. A guy waiting for his espresso chimed in, “My ex did that to me right before my cousin’s wedding. I was his Plus One—awkward!” Someone else offered solidarity with free advice and a knowing nod.

By the time Lily left (still wearing mismatched shoes), I realized something strange—no, magical—had happened. The café, a place that had always been about food and caffeine, transformed into a space for connection and honesty. I soaked it all up as though it was a scene from an indie movie. People bared their souls to total strangers because, sometimes, it’s easier that way.

Questions Over Quinoa

Later that evening, I found myself replaying the encounter over dinner with my parents (quinoa and roasted salmon because we’re Vancouverites, of course). “Why do people feel so comfortable opening up about their personal lives?” I asked, probing my salmon like it held the answer.

My dad gave the noncommittal shrug all dads possess. “Because it’s easier when people aren’t invested in your choices. You ask a stranger for help, not your family.” My mom disagreed, claiming that food—especially pastries—made people feel safe, like they were welcome no matter the messiness of their lives.

“She’s probably half-right,” I thought. Maybe both were. Or maybe humans just carry so much bottled-up tension that the minutiae of daily life—a bad morning, a breakup text, even a latte—can crack us wide open.

It’s Not About the Croissants

A few weeks after “Lily Day,” I sat down to write what would later become my breakout story collection. I thought about my own experiences but also drew from the stories I’d absorbed during my shifts at the café. New lovers, heartbreak, jealousy, laughter—it all flowed out faster than the café’s drip coffee.

The thing is, I’d always wanted to write capital-B Big things. Important stuff. Treatises on identity, sweeping epics of generational dramas. But the croissant incident made me realize my voice was meant for something else: the small, quiet stories. The glimpses in between—the heartache people confess over a chai latte or the flirtation that starts at the cream station—those were the stories I wanted to tell.

The Takeaway

Here’s the kicker: I didn’t set out to “find my purpose.” I didn’t even know I was lost. All I knew was that I loved writing and listening, and I saw every small conversation as a potential clue in the puzzle of human connection. But life has a funny way of throwing purpose at you when you least expect it.

So, whether you’re navigating a breakup, mismatched shoes, or a truly dismal date that makes you question your entire life, here’s what I’ve learned:

  • Pay Attention to the Little Things. Sometimes your big epiphany is wrapped in the ordinary—whether that’s a croissant or a casual chat with strangers. Keep your eyes (and heart) peeled for the things most people overlook.
  • Make Space for Connection. Whether it’s with friends, baristas, or random strangers at Trader Joe’s, connection often happens when we let our guard down. Ask questions, share stories, and listen more than you speak.
  • You Don’t Have to Find Your Purpose. Maybe your purpose is already inside you, tucked between your quirks and curiosities. It just needs a little nudge—or a mismatched-shoe moment—to reveal itself.

From Flirt to Familiar (and Everything in Between)

Lily came back a week later. This time, her shoes matched. “Hey, you were right,” she said. “I just needed a good dose of carbs and strangers. Thanks.”

And there it was—the full-circle moment of connection, like something out of a Hallmark movie but with way better dialogue.

Our lives don’t unfold in grand, Instagram-worthy gestures. More often than not, they hinge on tiny, seemingly insignificant moments—a latte at the right time, a shared laugh over shoes, a random story that reminds you humanity’s not so bad after all.

So, here’s to croissants, mismatched shoes, and every little thing that makes our messy, marvelous lives worth living. Go find your small moments. You’ll thank yourself later.