The Allure of Love, the Art of Storytelling: Why This Path Chose Me
They say the heart wants what it wants, and mine? Well, it wanted a lot. A great love story, for one—a sweeping, cinematic, tissues-in-your-lap kind of thing. But just as much, it wanted to understand how we craft connections, how we discover ourselves in the act of relating to someone else. Somehow, this desire to know and the messy brilliance of my journey led me right where I am: here, writing about relationships, connection, and love in all its thrilling and perplexing glory.
It wasn’t linear; it rarely is. But here’s what I know for sure: the flirtation between storytelling and love is eternal. And if you’re curious about why I went down this path, let me tell you a little story of my own.
Love Is the World’s Oldest Bestseller
My fascination with relationships started young. Picture me as a kid, wedged between the baby grand piano in my family’s Brooklyn living room and the bookshelves stacked with my parents’ literary treasures. In one hand, a copy of my mom’s annotated Pride and Prejudice, and in the other, my dad’s dog-eared collection of Baldwin essays. Add a VHS of When Harry Met Sally borrowed from a neighbor (with a warning about “those” scenes), and I was already in deep.
Classic novels, rom-coms, and iconic R&B lyrics all sang the same song: love is paramount, and we’ll spin stories about it forever. But here’s the twist—the stories were never just about love in the abstract. They were about people discovering who they were, one awkward date, teary confession, or quiet compromise at a time. Even as a kid, I could see it: romance wasn’t just a plotline. It was a mirror.
Fast-forward through private school debates on the feminist subtext in Gone With the Wind, late-night dorm-room conversations dissecting Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and term papers about the poeticism of heartbreak in Murakami’s South of the Border, West of the Sun. My love for analyzing love matured alongside my exposure to new voices, new characters, and—eventually—my own triumphs and failures in navigating relationships.
Because let’s be honest: it’s one thing to annotate Elizabeth and Darcy’s tempestuous banter. It’s another to figure out what to text someone after a so-so first date when you actually kind of like them. (Hint: don’t overthink it. Also, emojis help.)
From Marketing Decks to Matters of the Heart
After college, I gave corporate America a try. It seemed like the thing to do when you’re twenty-two, optimistic, and bolstered by two prestigious degrees. I spent days optimizing brand identities and strategizing revenue growth for the kinds of companies you'd likely scroll past on LinkedIn without a second glance. It was fine. Fine like driving a rental Toyota is fine—you’ll get where you need to go, but there’s no spark.
In the evenings, though, I turned to writing. Stories. Letters. Reflections on things I noticed in other people’s relationships—and in my own. I was offering advice to friends before I even knew I had any to give. (Becoming the go-to “friend who gets dating” is an honor, by the way, but I’ll admit: the pressure’s real.)
Eventually, I realized the thing that lit me up wasn’t building marketing strategies—it was exploring what really makes us tick as partners, lovers, and individuals stumbling toward connection. So I took that leap—you know, the one that looks thrilling in movies but feels like you’re Evel Knievel jumping the Grand Canyon when you’re the person doing it in real life. I let go of the “safe” path, entered the world of writing and storytelling full-time, and haven’t looked back since.
Relationships Are Creative Acts (Seriously)
Here’s where love and literature overlap: relationships aren’t fixed things you discover fully formed under a rock. They’re messy, dynamic creations you actively participate in shaping—just like a story. You don’t get to control every twist or turn (plot twist: someone you really liked ghosted you). But you do get to decide how you react, what you fight for, and when to turn the page.
In other words, it’s less about finding “the one” and more about realizing that you’re the protagonist of your own unfolding, unpredictable narrative. You get to coauthor the relationships you build—and, truthfully, no one else could write your particular love story better than you.
The Stories We Tell Ourselves About Love
One of the most important lessons I’ve learned on this path? The narrative we construct in our heads about what love “should” look like can either limit or empower us. Take me, for instance. Growing up steeped in old-school romances, I thought love was supposed to be grand gestures and perfectly delivered lines.
Spoiler: it’s not. Love—in real life—is often quieter. It’s in walking a partner to the subway on a cold morning or remembering to ask how their meeting went. It’s in showing up for someone during the hard stuff, not just popping champagne during the best moments.
But the moment I embraced this more expansive, less picture-perfect idea of love, everything changed. I stopped holding my life up against what I thought it “should” look like and leaned into something more honest: love is messy. Imperfect. It’s also beautiful in ways that make imperfection kind of irrelevant.
Why I Stayed
Why do I write about this stuff? Why am I captivated by the art and science of relationships? Because it matters. It really, truly matters. You can be dazzlingly successful professionally, live in the glassiest penthouse on Manhattan’s skyline, and still feel like something’s missing if your connections to others—and to yourself—aren’t strong. (Cue Jay Gatsby and that green light he’s always staring at.)
The relationships we build reflect the kind of lives we’re living. The way we show up for another person often mirrors how we treat ourselves. And learning to navigate all that? It’s worth every bad date, every misstep, every vulnerable big leap into the unknown.
Takeaway: Risk It
Here’s your call to action, reader—because yes, I know you’re here for something bigger than a behind-the-scenes of why I took this job. Maybe you’re wondering what’s next in your own story or whether that risk you’re eyeing is worth it. I’ll save you the deliberation: it is.
Risk the date—even if it means you get it gloriously wrong. Risk the “What are we?” conversation. Risk the effort to unlearn the things you think you know about love.
Because love—the real, raw, joyful, inconvenient kind—isn’t something neat that we’re supposed to master. It’s messy magic. And just like a good story, it’s far better lived than perfectly planned.
If I can spend any part of my life inspiring others to embrace that—well, Brooklyn kid with his books and borrowed rom-com soundtracks couldn’t dream of a better purpose.
