The Moment That Changed Everything

Have you ever noticed how life has a habit of sneaking up on you at the least convenient moment, delivering lessons you didn’t sign up for? Sometimes, these moments are small—a side-eye from your cat that makes you question your life choices. And sometimes, they hit you with the emotional force of a Taylor Swift breakup song, leaving you with no choice but to change. My Moment That Changed Everything wasn’t flashy or dramatic, but it fundamentally reshaped how I understand love, relationships, and (most importantly) myself.

Spoiler alert: it happened in aisle three of a Safeway.

When a Pack of Flour Broke My Heart

Let me set the stage. I was 22 and fresh off what I thought was the love of my life—the kind of relationship where you bond over late-night gas station snacks and marvel at how “different” you are from everyone else. We were living that perfectly-imperfect indie romance dream. And then, as it happens, we weren’t. What started as playful debates about which Star Wars trilogy was superior (the OG, obviously), dissolved into arguments over whose turn it was to scrub the bathroom sink. One day, he packed his Xbox and his reusable water bottle and walked out of my tiny studio apartment in Vermont.

Cue: my personal spiral.

I didn’t leave my apartment for days, surviving on cereal and sheer willpower. But eventually, hunger forced me to rejoin the world. I dragged myself to the Safeway a block away, determined to restock my dignity along with my pantry. And that’s where I saw it: a pack of Blue Bird flour, the kind used to make fry bread.

In case you didn’t grow up Navajo—or you’ve been missing out on the food of the gods—fry bread is more than just oil and dough. It’s memories of my aunties singing as they cooked at family gatherings, my uncles teasing me for eating too quickly, my grandma smacking my hand when I tried to sneak the first hot round off the plate. Fry bread is comfort, tradition, connection. And yet, as I stared at the bag of flour, I realized something horrifying: I’d completely lost that part of myself in my quest to fit into a relationship.

When my ex first met my family back in Arizona, he made an offhand comment about how fry bread was “just fried pizza dough.” I should’ve said something. Or laughed it off, at least. But I didn’t. Instead, I never mentioned fry bread again—not to him, not even to myself. Over time, I’d brushed aside other pieces of myself, trading them for versions of “me” that I thought he’d like better: less opinionated, less connected to home, less…me. And standing there in that grocery aisle, holding the stupid bag of flour, I sobbed. Not for him—he’d long since been downgraded to “lukewarm memory” status—but for the self I’d left behind.

Falling Back in Love with Myself

There’s a saying in Navajo: hozho. It loosely translates to “balance,” but it’s also about living fully and beautifully, embracing harmony in all things—especially yourself. I grew up hearing my grandma say, “Don’t lose your hozho, Tiana,” and like any stubborn kid, I’d roll my eyes and think, “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” But standing there with tear tracks on my face and a bottle of chocolate syrup in my cart (balanced diet, anyone?), her words hit home. Somewhere between Vermont and my breakup, I’d wandered way off my path.

That grocery store Moment was where it started, though. Not an instant change—it wasn’t like a montage from Eat Pray Love where I suddenly became a better, glowier person—but a slow unraveling of all the ways I’d forgotten to love myself. Turns out you can’t pour into a relationship when your own cup is running empty.

Here’s the thing: self-love, much like fry bread, takes practice. You’re going to mess up the ratios; some days, you’ll burn the edges. But when you get the balance right? It’s warm. It’s comforting. And it feeds everything else in your life.

Building a Connection that Sticks

Fast-forward a couple of years, and I found myself staring at another kind of “shopping cart”—my first attempt at online dating. For context, every inch of me wanted to run away screaming. How would I distill my essence into a handful of curated photos and 200 words? How could I convince strangers that “I like books and hiking” didn’t make me boring? And then I remembered that bag of flour—and the commitment I’d made to never lose myself again.

Here’s what I did instead of trying to sound like everyone else:

  1. Be Real, Not Perfect.
    Let’s get this out of the way: your bio doesn’t have to read like a movie trailer. If you’re on a chicken nuggets-and-sweatpants vibe right now, own it. My headline? “Cultural anthropology nerd who knows how to handle spicy salsa and awkward silences.” It was true, playful, me.

  2. Show Don’t Tell.
    Anyone can list personality traits—“I’m adventurous! Funny! Spontaneous!”—but if every profile says that, how are you actually standing out? Instead, choose 2-3 details that paint a picture. For example, I wrote, “Once rescheduled a date to teach my cousin how to drive a stick shift. Spoiler: we both survived.” It said more about my priorities—and my humor—than any generic superlative could.

  3. Leave Room for Conversation.
    You don’t need to share your life story upfront. Drop a breadcrumb or two, like a line about your favorite offbeat hobby or a weird fact about yourself. I mentioned that I can’t eat pancakes without doing math (what is up with uneven syrup distribution?!). It’s weird, yet oddly effective as a conversation starter.

  4. Don’t Ditch Your Dealbreakers.
    Oh, the temptation to gloss over that one thing you know will drive you crazy just to snag a match. Don’t. It won’t end well (trust me). Remember: authenticity scares off the wrong people, not the right ones.

Conclusion

Looking back, standing there in Safeway crying over a bag of flour was ridiculous, transformative, and exactly what I needed. It reminded me that relationships—whether with a partner or yourself—are about nourishing the things that make you, you. Building a dating profile (or starting a new relationship) is no different. The goal isn’t to create a polished version of yourself for someone else to swipe on—it’s to show up as your fry bread-loving, pancake-math-obsessed, messy-confident self.

So, whether you’re staring at a blank profile or debating whether to text your situationship back, here’s what I’d tell you: don’t lose your hozho. The right connections will meet you exactly where you are—tear tracks, flour bags, and all.