I once heard a quote, “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.” Usually, people trot this out when their soufflé falls flat or their vacation playlist gets shuffled to death-metal. Rarely do we expect it to be the tagline for our entire life. But for me? It fits. I owe my career, my happiness—even my sense of purpose—to one wild, barely-planned experience. Spoiler alert: It all started with frybread.
How a Potluck Changed Everything
Let me set the scene. It was my first fall semester in New England, and I’d just transferred from a tribal college in Arizona to a small liberal arts school known for things like maple syrup festivals and having no WiFi in the library. I was part of the school’s Native American Student Association, which wasn’t so much a “group” as it was five of us having lunch on Wednesdays while casually debating how many times we’d been asked, “So, are you like, 1/16th Cherokee?”
One gray October afternoon, we decided to host a potluck to showcase "indigenous cuisine." While the group diligently planned their dishes—wild rice casserole, salmon, corn soup—I panicked. Because guess who didn’t know how to cook? In my family back in Arizona, frybread—golden, fluffy, slightly sinful—was a centerpiece at every gathering. Was I allowed to admit I had no clue how to make it? Probably not. So I did what any stressed, 20-year-old anthropology major would do: I called my grandmother.
She laughed for ten straight seconds. “Frybread?” she said, between chuckles. “That’s your emergency?”
Yes, panicking over flatbread might not sound like a "crisis," but when you're far from home and questioning your entire identity in a sea of crunchy vermonters wearing Alpaca wool hats, small things loom large.
The call turned into an impromptu lesson. I scribbled frantic notes while she explained the importance of hot oil, the gentle touch required to roll the dough—not too thick, not too thin—and the magic of frying it just to golden perfection.
By some miracle (OK, fine, eight failed practice batches), I nailed it. At the potluck, people devoured my frybread faster than you could say “cultural appropriation.” Some asked for the recipe, others asked too many questions about its history (classic). But what stayed with me was the way people connected over something so simple. It reminded me of every family gathering back home, the warmth of storytelling, and the reassurance that belonging doesn’t rely on location. And there it was: the flicker of purpose.
Wait, It Gets Weirder
I didn’t toss my textbooks or declare, “Frybread is my calling!” right then and there. But something shifted. Food was the first thread I pulled, and it unraveled all kinds of ideas about identity, culture, and connection.
Over time, I found myself wanting to understand how we relate—across tables, across traditions, across relationships. Why does shared food mean so much? Why does a family recipe carry more weight than most heirlooms? These questions flowed into my studies, and eventually, into my career.
Fast forward a few years: Newly graduated, and I’d ended up as a cultural liaison in New Mexico. My job included helping facilitate conversations between tribal councils and state governments—everything from land preservation to community health. If that sounds lofty or bureaucratic, believe me, the reality was more like being a part-time diplomat, therapist, and walking-tornado of Post-it notes. One surprise perk? Meetings usually included some sort of delicious communal meal.
These gatherings reminded me again and again of the power that’s sparked when people share space and stories—often literally across the table. If frybread opened the door, then this experience flung it wide open.
Actionable Lessons from My Accidental Life Pivot
In case you're now staring at a loaf of bread wondering if carbs will reveal your destiny, let me save you some trouble. It wasn’t really about frybread, or even food. It was about seeing how small, seemingly insignificant moments can set us on paths we’re meant to follow. Here’s what I learned:
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Lean Into Discomfort.
Let me tell you—trying to fry dough at 11 PM in a dorm kitchen with questionable ventilation isn’t glamorous. But the things that scare us a little (or a lot) are often the things that teach us the most. That day, I could’ve opted out of the potluck, but leaning into the awkwardness got me closer to where I was supposed to be. In dating and relationships, it’s the same. Those messy, uncomfortable conversations are often the ones that bring the most clarity. -
Find the Magic in the Mundane.
Frybread wasn’t special because I fried it. It was special because it carried the ghost of every woman in my family who ever made it before me. Love works this way too. A Tuesday date night over takeout might matter more than a big anniversary dinner because it’s where real life happens. Look not just for sparks, but for embers you can keep alive. -
Follow the Threads.
I like to think of purpose as less of a “lightbulb moment” and more of a breadcrumb trail. My life’s work didn’t smack me in the face one day; it unraveled slowly, each experience helping me connect the dots. Relationships, too, are built this way. You don’t have to have all the answers on a third date. Just pay attention to the small things that feel right. -
Don’t Take It Too Seriously.
Look, some of this sounds profound. But also? It’s okay to laugh at yourself. I burned four batches of dough before I made one batch right. Life’s like that. Your mistakes are rarely the dealbreaker you think they are. Whether it’s burnt frybread or a bad first date, there’s always room to try again.
The Conclusion – Or Is It?
Today, I write about relationships all the time. How we love, why we get it wrong, how we can do better. My roots, my time spent observing frybread gatherings on the Navajo Nation, my grandmother’s laughter at my culinary panic—all of it influences how I see connection. And though my frybread skills wouldn’t win me any awards (seriously, don’t expect perfectly puffed edges every time), I still make it for friends and loved ones whenever I can. Frybread taught me that love, purpose, and belonging usually show up in the spaces where tradition and curiosity meet.
Maybe you won’t find your calling in the kitchen, but here’s the thing: You already have it in you if you’re willing to listen. Often, it’s not about the what. It’s about the why. So lean into that thing—even if it’s awkward or messy—that connects you to yourself and your people. Your purpose might just be waiting on the other side of a skillet.
