Growing up steeped in Hollywood’s glitz and glamour, I was exposed to storytelling before I could spell it. My parents, both producers, juggled scripts and star-studded galas like a rom-com power couple trying to book a babysitter. Shabbat dinners in our house weren’t just family meals—they were multi-generational symposiums where my grandparents would debate over gefilte fish while my dad casually mentioned casting dilemmas with A-listers. To say I was surrounded by stories would be an understatement. Stories surrounded me, folded me into their arms, and refused to let go.

But choosing a career path isn’t exactly a Disney montage of glittering lights and triumphant music. More often, it’s staring at your post-grad self and wondering if you’re doomed to occasionally reheat soup at your parents’ house indefinitely. So how, in a sea of possibilities, did I land here—writing about relationships for a living? Well, let me tell you: I didn’t just choose this path. It chose me.

Act One: The Plot Twists of Real Life

Here’s a little-known fact about Beverly Hills: even surrounded by tanned bodies and endless round-the-clock Botox appointments, dating is just as awkward as anywhere else. Yes, I did once have a guy show up to a coffee date wearing a silver sequin blazer—a vibe that screamed “frontman of a Vegas lounge act” rather than “I’m emotionally available.” And yes, I also endured countless, “I just didn’t feel the spark” texts, which were often followed by those same guys dating Instagram influencers with captions like “Grateful for my goddess.” Hollywood doesn’t deliver much in the romance department unless a screenwriter’s calling the shots.

While my childhood revolved around fictional love triangles and family sagas, my early 20s introduced me to the wild terrain of people—not characters—trying their best to connect. Real life had no perfect meet-cutes, snappy dialogue, or well-timed grand gestures. Instead, there were first dates that fizzled, "situationships" I over-analyzed with my friends until we drained $14 lattes dry, and a whole lot of learning how to say no. It was confusing, messy, and occasionally cathartic. And honestly? It was prime material.

If storytelling is all about people and connection, dating may just be the most universal tale there is. Everything boiled down to one thing: What kind of story are we trying to tell in our relationships? Is your lover the wrong cast member in your romantic drama? Do you have the wrong genre combo—think rom-com versus a noir? Are you (gulp) the unreliable narrator in your own story?

Act Two: From Screenplays to Self-Discovery

For a long time, I thought I wanted to stay in screenwriting. After all, I’d invested years studying it, interned for powerful people, and churned out scripts at all hours fueled by overpriced, single-origin coffee. Screenwriting looked good on LinkedIn and sounded even better during cocktail party small talk.

But here’s the thing about screenwriting: it’s solitary. You’re staring at a laptop for hours, hoping to breathe life into characters that might never leave the page. I loved it—the problem-solving, the witty one-liners, the power of creating something that might make someone laugh or cry. But it kept me at arm’s length from my own life.

It was during a late-night session working on a script that dealt with (you guessed it) relationship drama that I started reflecting on my own love life. Who we love (and how) defines so much of who we are, I realized that night. What if I stopped analyzing relationships through the lens of other characters and started reflecting on my own? The very next day, I put my script revisions on the back burner and wrote a short essay about a horrifically awkward breakup in college that somehow involved a lost shoe, a bad burrito, and my mother calling me to ask why I hadn’t RSVP’d to a family gathering. The piece got published on a niche lifestyle blog, and readers emailed me to say one thing: “This felt like my life, too.”

That essay birthed my passion for writing about the stuff no one talked about openly but everyone lived through: the self-doubt after a breakup, the intimacy of saying the wrong thing on a date, and the comedy we later find in moments that felt mortifying. Writing about relationships felt like standing on a street corner with a megaphone proclaiming to the masses: “Hey, I see you! We're all messy, trying, learning—and that's beautiful.”

Act Three: The Intersection of Laughter and Love

You know how every good story needs a hook? Love—whether found, lost, or somewhere in between—has always been the ultimate hook. What I’ve learned since writing about relationships is that they’re not about finding “The One.” They’re about finding yourself. Groan-inducing cliché? Maybe. But that truth makes every awkward date and every heartbreaking goodbye a little more bearable. And spoiler: your story keeps evolving.

Behind every article I write is a part of me that survived a cringeworthy flirtation or an ill-fated fling. Like that time I told someone on a second date I “rehydrated my succulents” every Sunday morning, instead of just calling it what it was: my weekly existential crisis. Or how, once, I ghosted someone simply because I couldn’t rationalize his obsession with kitchen gadgets. (Do you really need an avocado peeler? Just use a spoon!)

The absurdities of love and dating aren’t pitfalls—they’re plot points. Through every stumble, I’ve learned this: Relationships are never about perfect performances. Instead, they’re about staying in the mess, the improv, and the heartbreak long enough to find humor and meaning in the script of our lives.

Act Four: What You Can Take From My Journey

So why does any of this matter to you, my dear reader? Here's what I can tell you:

  • Your romantic missteps are worth something: Every “worst date ever” or awkward moment is another line in the script of your life. See it for the material it is! Laugh about it, learn from it, and spin it into a story that makes you stronger.
  • Vulnerability is your best plot twist: Whether you’re sitting across a dinner table or typing out a carefully crafted text, showing up as yourself is better than any meet-cute fantasy you concoct in your head.
  • Your relationships don’t define your story—you do: Love is a subplot, not the whole novel. Whether you're single, taken, or somewhere in between, this journey is about you just as much as it is about anyone else who makes a cameo in your life.

The Final Scene: Empowerment, Not Perfection

Choosing this path—writing about relationships—means embracing the complexities of love and helping others see its beauty, hilarity, and truth. I didn’t arrive at this career in some epiphany-filled monologue. I got here through glorious mistakes, plenty of self-reflection, and holding onto the belief that every stumble can lead to a story worth telling. If you're still standing, still trying, and still open to love (in its many forms), you’re exactly where you need to be.

Here’s the big takeaway: Your story is yours to shape, one scene at a time. Whether it’s a sweeping romance or an awkward comedy of errors, it’s your masterpiece. Trust me—sequined blazer guys and overpriced lattes are just flavor for the script. Now, go out and write the next chapter.