It was late autumn in Napa, the kind of day when the air smells faintly of crushed leaves and overripe persimmons, and the vineyards are dressed in their final blaze of glory. I was sitting at my kitchen counter, still wearing the flour-dusted apron from that morning’s experiment in sourdough. The phone rang—a banal occurrence, really. But as I reached for it, I had no inkling it would become the call. The one where everything shifted, like sand through an hourglass tipped all at once.

“Briar, hey,” said a voice smooth as a perfectly decanted Syrah. The kind of voice people trust at wine auctions and therapy sessions.

It was Camille, an editor I had met at a food and wine conference in Sonoma the year before. At the time, we bonded over our mutual irritation with misuse of the word “terroir” and a shared love for cheese that, embarrassingly, oozed a little past its prime. I figured she was calling to ask my opinion on, perhaps, a sparkling wine pairing for a boisterous cocktail party or some similar small talk within our shared realm. Instead, she said words that caused my bread knife to clatter onto the counter.

“Ever thought about writing for a relationships publication?”

Now, you need to understand something about me: up until that very moment, the closest I’d come to writing about love was waxing poetic about the sensuality of chocolate mousse. The flirtation between ganache and candied orange zest, sure. But people? Actual people fumbling their way through the kaleidoscope of love? That felt as uncharted as pairing a Malbec with sushi.

Still, something in her tone made me pause. Here’s the thing about life-changing calls: no one ever warns you they're about to happen. They don’t come with a soundtrack or dramatic lighting—just a quiet insistence that leaves you leaning forward, saying “Yes, tell me more.”

“But I Write About Food!” – Leaping Into the Unknown

Camille explained her vision: a fresh, clever platform blending relatable experiences with deeply meaningful insights into modern dating and connection. My role? To contribute personal essays and advice-filled articles that explored relationships through my lens—a girl raised in vineyards who turned wine into a professional art form and love into a private, sometimes clumsy pursuit.

I wanted to laugh. Relationships? I could talk endlessly about the flirtatious tension between a Napa Cab and a thick bolognese, but the human tug-of-war of dating? I wasn’t exactly a Casanova with a pen. My dates had been peppered with awkward silences, overeager toasts (a special shoutout to anyone who’s ever clinked glasses mid-sentence and spilled Pinot down their blouse), and yes, ghosting.

But Camille swatted away my doubts as if they were fruit flies at a summer tasting. “You know sensory language, Briar. You know how to draw people in. Writing about connection—you already do it. You just haven’t realized it yet.”

And just like that, she had me. That’s the funny thing about venturing out of our self-imposed lanes. We cling to the identity we’ve crafted for ourselves—safe, known—until someone else spots a possibility we never considered.

Why the Call Mattered (and How It Changed Me)

That wasn’t just a call about a job; it was an invitation to rethink how I saw myself. I was no longer merely a food writer but a storyteller about life and love. And if cooking and wine had taught me anything, it was that the best creations happen with a blend of unexpected ingredients.

Take, for instance, the way a smoky barbecue pairs with a crisp rosé—a surprising duo most would scoff at, but amazing in practice. That’s what writing about relationships felt like to me at the start: a surprising pairing, one I didn’t quite trust but was willing to taste anyway.

This call wasn’t just career-shifting. It redefined how I approached my personal life as well. It's hard to write about connection without reflecting on your own relationships. Am I as open to love as I am to, say, trying a new recipe with squid ink? (Spoiler: I wasn’t.) The more I immersed myself in this work, the more I realized connection, like cuisine, thrives on curiosity, vulnerability, and—even during the disasters—a willingness to keep going.

So, What’s the Takeaway for You?

Okay, you’re not here just for my fairy tale of career realignment—you want some practical lessons, too. Here’s the thing about any call that flips your world in an instant, romantic or otherwise: you can’t script it. Life’s turning points rarely knock first or ask if you’re ready. They show up with the boldness of a first date ordering garlic fries, and you have to decide if you’re into it.

But here’s how to be ready when it happens:

  1. Recognize the Opportunity – Whether it's a job, a relationship, or an invitation to step out of your comfort zone, look for the moment that makes your heart skip a little. For me, Camille’s call landed like a comet. It wasn’t about what I already knew—it was about what I might have to discover.

  2. Lean Into Potential Awkwardness – Starting something new is like hosting your awkward first dinner party. Sure, the soufflé might crater, or you might fumble through introductions. But if you don’t begin, you’ll never know the thrill of pulling it off—or arms linked with someone who helped you do it.

  3. Let Your Life Intersect – My food writing brought wine pairings to life; my relationship writing peeled back layers of my own emotional inexperience. It turns out, they inform one another beautifully. The same goes for you—let the varied pieces of your life blend like a well-balanced dish. What seems unexpected might just end up being your signature recipe.

The Closing Sip

So here I am, years after that unexpected call, blending the joy of storytelling with the raw, unpredictable beauty of connection. Writing about love is a lot like food—it’s messy, passionate, and at its best, deeply communal. But every word feels truer than the last job I thought defined me.

And honestly? Even after all this time, I still think back to that moment—Camille dialing my number while I fumbled my phone with bread dough sticking to my fingers. It wasn't neat. It wasn't convenient. But it was everything I didn’t know I needed.

Look, I don’t know what phone call might shake up your life. But I do know this: don’t let it go straight to voicemail. Who knows—you might just end up penning the instructions to your own unexpected masterpiece.