How I Accidentally Discovered My Purpose

Sometimes, life has a strange way of handing you a map when you didn’t even realize you were lost. For me, this map showed up at a cringingly awkward dinner party in east Toronto. I know—it’s not exactly the dramatic revelation scene you might imagine in a movie, where the protagonist stares wistfully at a rain-streaked window while profound music plays in the background. Nope. Mine involved dumplings, a misfired joke, and an accidental deep-dive into the art of connection.

By the end of that night, I’d discovered what I was meant to do in a way that was messy, unexpected, and strangely perfect. But before we get there, you’ll need the full story—awkward moments and all.

The Setup: Confessions of a Chronic Overthinker

I’ve always been fascinated by relationships. Not just romantic relationships—the whole sprawling mess of human interaction. Why do some friendships last decades while others fizzle out after a year? Why do people ghost when a simple text would suffice? And (the big one) why does small talk at office parties genuinely feel like running an emotional marathon?

This curiosity came with a side order of overthinking, naturally. Growing up, I analyzed every conversation like it was a final exam. Did my occasional teenage stammer make me sound nervous? Should I have laughed at that joke about '80s hair bands or would it blow my cover as a Tragically Hip loyalist? I wasn’t always the most naturally confident teenager, but I had a knack for spotting patterns in how people related to one another—and analyzing them like a Riverdale whiz kid cracking the cultural code.

Fast-forward to my adult life, and this understanding of dynamics was something of a talent I kept in my back pocket. I wouldn’t say it was my thing, though—certainly not my “purpose.” That was still TBD. Then came the dinner party.

The Dumpling Incident: A Comedy of Errors

Picture it: Toronto, springtime, the air so cold it could still throw you a weather-related curveball. I’d been invited to a potluck-style dinner party by a friend I knew just well enough not to flake out on. Being a reasonably functional adult, I brought food—but I’ll admit I got lazy and grabbed frozen dumplings from a nearby convenience store. I figured steaming them back to life would be like tossing a frozen pizza in the oven, minimal effort for maximal social acceptability.

The crowd was lively and a tinge intimidating—an eclectic mix of artists, tech gurus, and one guy who probably reads The Economist for fun. Trying to make small talk, I lobbed one of those generic questions that indie self-help books recommend for “breaking the ice.”

“How did you guys all meet?” I asked.
It turns out, my accidentally banal question snowballed into one of those conversations—those glorious sidebar group chats where people can’t help but start opening up about their lives. As friendships and first meetings unfolded in overlapping anecdotes, I noticed myself instinctively doing something I’d always done: seeing where the threads connected. The silences? I filled them with humor. When someone hesitated, I nudged their story out gently—realizing how much joy I got from structuring a conversation like a jigsaw puzzle coming to life.

But then came The Dumpling Incident (capitalized here for dramatic effect and emotional scarring). A guy in a graphic tee commented on my store-bought offering. “Wow, really going hard with the personal touch, huh?” he joked, grinning broadly and gesturing toward his homemade poutine.

This should’ve been playful. Instead, I blurted a weirdly defensive response about artisanal craftsmanship in factories—a comment met with polite laughter but left me internally cringing for hours. I felt like I’d committed a cardinal social sin. But instead of retreating into self-pity, I decided to work the room harder, deflecting my embarrassment by returning to what I was (unknowingly) best at: asking the questions no one else thought to.

An Accidental Experiment in Connection

Here’s the secret sauce I didn’t realize I was cooking until much later: asking people about themselves, with genuine curiosity, is one of the most underrated forms of connection. Something about these exchanges during the dinner party clicked for me, partly because I wasn’t trying to perform or impress. Whenever the conversation slowed or a person started checking their phone for “important emails” that didn’t exist, I threw out light curiosities:

  • “What’s something you loved doing as a kid but somehow grew out of?” (This led to one woman recounting her passion for circus arts—yes, really—leading us all to collectively Google Toronto trapeze classes.)
  • “Would you rather absolutely crush karaoke in front of strangers or bomb a comedy set in front of your closest friends?”
  • “What’s something you’re really proud of that no one ever asks about?”

The responses brought the group together in ways no charcuterie board or pseudo-intellectual debate about AI ever could. I started noticing how, when asked these types of questions, people lit up in ways small talk never managed to achieve. The Dumpling Teaser Guy? Redemption came mid-way through a shared passion for hockey (even though he roots for Calgary, so honestly, jury’s still out on him).

The Lightbulb Moment

When I left that night, I grabbed my slightly embarrassing leftovers, and by the time I was home it hit me—this is what I’m supposed to be doing. Maybe not hosting literal dinner parties (let’s face it, my cooking would let everyone down), but helping people connect with themselves and others in meaningful ways. I thought about all those years of overthinking, editing texts before sending them, and noticing how tiny shifts in tone could make or break a conversation. That wasn’t overthinking. It was a skill—a calling.

Putting yourself out there, in relationships—or any social scenario—requires two things: vulnerability and the bravery to be fully present. That night had been living proof.

Actionable Takeaways for Your Own “Aha Moment”

Now, I don’t expect your life purpose to reveal itself at a potluck over soy sauce and awkward banter. But the dinner-party-turned-self-revelation taught me a few lessons you can take away:

  1. Openness Leads to Clarity
    Stop waiting for a perfect scenario to “figure things out.” Compare answers instead of clinging to questions. It might happen in a random moment, like casually walking into your own epiphany at a party hosted by someone you sort of know.

  2. Communicate Like a Connection Detective
    The next time you’re in a group setting, try fun, slightly unconventional questions. (Pro tip: avoid “What do you do for work?” unless you want to watch someone’s soul melt into the floor.) You might accidentally uncover more shared humanity—and see yourself sharper through those interactions.

  3. Fail Fast and Laugh Hard
    If you bomb a comment or a joke, laugh it off. Fumbling through connection is part of how relationships—and life—strengthen. Seriously, who cares if it’s awkward? No one remembers your dumpling disaster.

The Takeaway: Make Room for Messy Brilliance

Discovering your purpose isn’t always clean or neatly packaged. It’s often messy, wrapped in trial and error, seasoned by moments where you feel a little too human. But trust me: those experiences might just contain the seeds of something amazing. Show up. Ask questions. Share connection. And if you’re ever unsure? Just bring dumplings.