Why I Chose This Path

The Unexpected Romance Between Stories and Connection
When I was a kid, love stories were everywhere. Not just the epic, sweeping kind with violin crescendos—although I’ll admit I was a sucker for those too—but the quieter, everyday kind. Like the couple at our neighborhood boulangerie on Saturday mornings, her handing him the maple éclair because she knew it was his favorite, or my parents trading French idioms in the kitchen, their shared laughter carrying through our Montreal flat. Even within the walls of my home, love was its own language, as intricate as the pages of any novel.

But here’s the funny thing: I didn’t set out to write about relationships. Nope. A younger, far-more-serious Juliette envisioned herself penning piercing societal critiques, the next Simone de Beauvoir but with slightly better shoes. And yet, like a bad first date that somehow turns into a great love story, writing about connection—what pulls us toward each other, what pushes us away—kept finding me.

Eavesdropping as Research (No, Really)
Growing up in Montreal is like living in a city-wide symphony. Walk a block, and you’ll hear English, French, sometimes both in the same sentence. We’re masters of code-switching here, not just with language but with emotions too. A couple arguing in St-Viateur’s bagel line will end their spat with a soft “m’en veux pas.” The idea of seamless transitions—from tension to tenderness, from misunderstanding to mutual ground—always fascinated me.

So, naturally, I became an eavesdropper. (Let’s call it “observational research,” shall we?) In cafes, on cobblestone streets, even waiting at the bus stop in -20°C weather, I’d hear snippets of conversations about love, longing, betrayal, hope. You don’t need a front-row seat to life’s drama when you live here. It’s all playing out on the stage of every terrasse.

I realized, somewhere between a late-night café noir and jotting dialogue scraps onto napkins, that these moments weren’t just interesting—they were universal. The raw, complicated way people fumble with connection? That’s the real heart of everything. It’s not slick or perfect. It’s messy, kind of like accidentally FaceTiming your crush while wearing yesterday’s pajamas. But it’s real.

Love in Translation
Before I was writing stories, I was translating them. Taking a story written in French and bridging it into English wasn’t just about swapping words—it was about preserving tone, layering meaning, and making sure the soul of the text didn’t get lost on its way to its new reader. (It’s trickier than it sounds. Try translating French slang into English without mangling it. Spoiler: You can’t. It’s like trying to explain poutine to someone who’s never experienced winter.)

Translation is all about connection. It’s about ensuring a reader feels just as moved in one language as they might in another. And isn’t that what relationships are, in a way? Translating feelings. Interpreting silences. Finding common ground despite everything that tries to pull us apart. In my writing, I try to bridge the same gaps—between readers and the heart of someone else’s story. Because even if we don’t all show love the same way, we can learn to understand it better.

Relationships Are the Banquet, Not the Side Dish
Here’s a confession: for a long stretch in my 20s, I avoided outwardly romantic topics. As a literature student, I’d been taught to aim for the “serious,” capital-L literature. (You know, the kind that requires thick glasses and a reserved reading chair.) Relationships, I was warned, were mere side dishes.

But when I think about my life, from my parents’ gentle ribbing in the kitchen to the friends who stayed up until 3 a.m. with me post-heartbreak, connection isn’t just a “side dish.” It’s the entire banquet. And I bet, if you take a minute to reflect, you’d find it’s the same for you. Whether you name it love, friendship, community, or something else, it’s the craving beneath the craving, the thing we build our lives around.

So, I thought, why not write about that? Why not dive headfirst into the vulnerability, joy, and inevitable cringe-worthy moments that come with love? If literature demands us to explore the human condition, well, this is a pretty great place to start.

Lessons From Paris—and Poutine
Once, during my semester abroad in Paris, I saw a couple have a full-on theatrical fight in front of the Seine. There was shouting, dramatic pacing, grand hand gestures you’d think only happened in movies. And just when the tension hit its peak? He pulled her in, kissed her like they were the leads in Amélie, and voilà, all was forgiven.

It was so romantic I almost applauded, except the cynical Montrealer in me thought: This wouldn’t fly back home. We don’t have cobblestone streets and centuries-old love bridges. We have Schwartz’s smoked meat sandwiches and February slush puddles so deep they could swallow your boot. Our romance isn’t Amélie—it’s more like Barney Stinson from How I Met Your Mother: slightly chaotic, occasionally inappropriate, but oddly endearing.

And honestly? I love that for us. Relationships don’t have to follow a script. (Spoiler: They rarely do.) What matters is that they feel true, even if that truth involves confessing, mid-date, that you once burned an ex’s favorite hoodie. (Oops. We grow, ok?)

The Real Why Behind My Path
If you ask why I chose this path, the truth is simple: stories of love, relationships, and connection feel endlessly important to me. Because those stories help us see ourselves more clearly. They remind us we’re not alone in our messes—or our triumphs.

When you’re two hours deep into a spiral about whether that text from your date was too casual (“Thanks for today”?? What does that even mean??), stories about love remind us that we’re all just fumbling our way through. That no matter how polished someone’s Instagram relationship looks, they’ve also had a minor meltdown when someone misused a heart emoji.

Writing about relationships forces me to look at these imperfections and laugh about them. It invites me to explore my own flaws (and oh, they’re there, trust me) with a sense of curiosity instead of shame. And ultimately, it allows me to share those insights with you, in the hopes you’ll find something to relate to, to learn from, or at least chuckle over.

Let’s Set the Table Together
My job—my joy—is to bring these moments to life, to give words to feelings you might not know how to name yet. Relationships aren’t perfect. They’re like my city: beautiful but cold sometimes, warm in unexpected moments, and better enjoyed with someone who knows where to get the best croissants.

We write because we want to feel less alone. We seek advice because life’s harder when your heart is involved. And I’m writing this because I want to remind you that your journey—wherever you are, whatever stage—has value. Maybe you’re arguing over whether emojis belong in texts, or maybe you’re writing the next great love story with someone by your side. Either way, I hope you take a moment to celebrate it. Even if there’s a little February slush along the way.