1. The $3 Sandwich That Changed Everything

It was a Thursday, and D.C. humidity was clinging to me like a needy ex. I was running late for a coffee meeting—if you’re from here, you know coffee meetings are really the currency of ambition. My stomach growled so loudly on the Metro that someone turned their head. Embarrassed, I bolted up the escalator at Dupont Circle and spotted a small Caribbean food truck on the corner. I had just enough cash for one thing: a pressed jerk chicken sandwich, dripping with spicy mayo and what I can only describe as hope.

The first bite hit me like a revelation. The warm spices were a memory of my mother’s kitchen, the streets of Kingston alive with music and chatter, and the smell of fresh patties cooling on a windowsill. Right then and there, I realized I didn’t just miss home—I missed the storytelling that came along with it, the tales of resilience and resourcefulness that my parents carried across an ocean.

Until that moment, I thought my purpose was straightforward: write about policy, draft good legislation, give a nod to my D.C. roots while sticking to the Hill’s polished rhythm. But that sandwich? That sandwich tasted like the truth I’d been avoiding: I wasn’t meant to operate in the sterile confines of policy papers. I had a cultural inheritance I hadn’t been honoring fully, a vibrant, messy, loud story about love, connection, and identity just waiting to be excavated.

2. How I Lost (and Found) My Groove

A quick rewind: As a political science major at Georgetown, I’d often joke that my first relationship was with bureaucracy. Instead of beach days, I spent weekends interning, perfecting memos on trade agreements and criminal sentencing reform. I told myself that crafting airtight arguments and pulling late nights on Capitol Hill was the responsible thing to do. I loved the work—or so I thought. But looking back, I now see I was too busy checking boxes to notice the cracks forming in my foundation.

By the time I finished grad school at Harvard, I was burned out. I’d sacrificed personal relationships for conference calls. My idea of romance had become scheduling “partner time” between policy drafts. I wasn’t just disconnected from others—I was disconnected from myself.

But that bite of jerk chicken sandwich made me ask an overdue question: Who was I really trying to impress? My family back home in Jamaica didn’t see success as jetting between hearings; they saw it as knowing who you are and taking care of your people. And me? I’d been so busy writing others’ narratives that I’d forgotten to author my own.

3. The Love Language of Food (and Connection)

Caribbean food has always had layers of meaning for me. It’s nourishment, sure, but it’s also a kind of love language. My mother used to say, “No matter where you go, you carry your ancestors’ taste buds in your mouth.” I didn’t get it as a kid—I just knew her curry could cure anything from heartbreak to a bad math grade.

Interestingly enough, dating taught me the same lesson in its own sneaky way. I think back to my college days when I met Elle (not her real name, but close enough). Elle introduced me to overpriced charcuterie boards and meticulously designed coffee shop lattes. I, in turn, introduced her to oxtail stew and fry plantain.

Things didn’t work out with Elle (R.I.P. to our Spotify-shared playlist), but those small acts of cultural exchange planted a seed. I began to see just how much I’d taken my culture for granted in my quest to blend in with D.C.’s politics-obsessed hustle. Food, like love, has an uncanny way of peeling us back to who we are at the core.

4. The Magic in Unplanned Moments

Here’s the truth, and I need you to lean in for this: Sometimes, the thing you’re meant to do has been quietly waiting for you to notice it. You don’t need a five-year plan or a perfectly dotted résumé to uncover it; you just need to stay open to those moments that feel bigger than they should.

For me, it started with a sandwich, but it grew into something I couldn’t ignore. The stories I wanted to tell weren’t tidy bullet points on a policy agenda—they were the overlapping, messy Venn diagrams of people’s lives and connections. The unspoken rules of love passed down over generations. The way relationships between parents and children shift with migration. The ways we flirt through food, music, and laughter.

5. From Here to Purpose: Three Questions to Ask Yourself

If you’re reading this and thinking, “Okay, Marcus, cool story, but how do I figure out my own purpose without waiting for a sandwich epiphany?”—don’t worry, I’ve got you. Here are three questions that helped me uncover my calling:

  1. What feels like home to you?
    Home isn’t always a physical space. It’s often a feeling—a smell, a sound, a vibe that makes you feel grounded. Purpose has a funny way of lingering around the things that feel familiar. For me, it was the rhythms of reggae and the spice of jerk. What’s yours?

  2. When are you your most authentic self?
    Think about the moments when you feel completely at ease, not performing for anyone. Purpose is often lurking in those unguarded moments. For me, it was cooking with my family or swapping stories at Caribbean reunions—places where I didn’t feel the need to “code-switch.”

  3. What’s something you can’t stop talking about?
    If it lights you up—and maybe even makes others roll their eyes because you won’t shut up about it—it’s worth paying attention to. Your passions have breadcrumbs that lead to your purpose; you just have to follow the trail.

6. Writing My Way Back to Myself

After that sandwich revelation (yes, I went back to that food truck the next day), I started writing more personally. Not just about politics but also about identity, relationships, and the tangled beauty of blending cultures. The journey wasn’t overnight—purpose rarely shows up with a road map.

But here’s the wild part: The more I leaned into the stories that felt personal and vulnerable, the more connection I found with readers. My words resonated in ways my talking points never could. And wouldn’t you know, those stories ended up opening more doors than all my policy pitches combined.

7. Embrace the Chaos (and the Sandwiches)

Here’s what I want you to know: Your purpose might not arrive with fireworks or a formal announcement. It could sneak up on you during a random Thursday lunchtime, tucked between deli paper and the messy sauce stains on your fingers. Don’t feel pressured to have it all figured out—sometimes the accidental discoveries are the ones that hit the hardest.

So, take the detours. Order the sandwich. Follow what feels true, even if it doesn’t come with a title or bulletproof plan. Trust me on this: You’ll know it’s your purpose when it tastes a little like home.