The One That (Almost) Got Away

Sometimes, life comes down to a single choice: chicken or fish, aisle or window seat, Carrie Bradshaw or practical savings. These decisions are rarely reversible—once you choose team "chicken," there's no un-chewing it. But occasionally, we face something bigger: a crossroads moment where the path not taken feels like it might echo back to us forever. My own “fork in the road” moment didn’t involve poultry, travel preferences, or fictional fashionistas—though it did involve the question of a lifetime…and a charming stranger.

Let’s rewind about six years ago. I was 26 and fresh out of a steady-but-soulless relationship that had stretched long past its expiration date. Cue East Nashville and its endless stream of creative, guitar-slinging personalities—an intoxicating mix of possibility and charm that felt like dipping into a bag of assorted candies, where every color is exciting, but you might accidentally bite into black licorice.

At a neighborhood bar that was one part honky-tonk dive, two parts aspiring speakeasy, I met “Jonathan.” Jonathan was a singer-songwriter. (Surprise, right? East Nashville? A singer-songwriter?) But there was something about him. His hazel eyes crinkled with mischief when he joked about his “backup dream” of becoming a professional dog walker. That night, over whiskey sours, we swapped stories about growing up around music and bonded over our mutual love of Dolly Parton. (“Jolene” as a response to commitment issues? Timeless.)

But here's where the choices come in: Jonathan wasn’t just there for the gig economy. A few weeks into our whirlwind flirtation, he dropped the kind of line you only hear in rom-coms or Taylor Swift albums: “Savannah, I’m leaving for L.A. next month to chase my music. Let’s go together.”

Cue the dramatic zoom-out music of life, where the room suddenly feels too big, and one solitary spotlight shines down on the protagonist (that’s me): What do you do when someone offers a westward ticket—with the promise of love, adventure, and maybe a bohemian bungalow off Sunset Boulevard?

Looking back, the moment feels much bigger than it probably was. Romantic choices often do. Back then, it felt like saying yes to Jonathan meant saying no to everything else. No to Nashville, no to the stories I wanted to write, maybe even no to the person I was becoming. On the other hand, saying no felt like shutting the door on untold romantic potential. I mean, what if the next Bonnie and Clyde were us... minus the crime spree?

The Problem with Crossroads

Here’s the cruel catch of these life-altering decisions: they never tell you how to calculate the “right move.” Sure, there’s advice (“Go with your gut!”) and well-meaning pep talks from friends (“If it’s right, it’ll come back!”), but in the end, choosing feels a bit like navigating with a broken GPS. Inevitably, you’re going to wonder about the road you didn’t choose, whether you’re happy or a hundred miles deep into regret.

That’s the thing no one tells you: The path not taken will always haunt you a little bit—but that haunting doesn’t mean you made the wrong choice. Sometimes, it just means you’re curious about alternate endings, and honestly, that’s human. If we can re-watch old sitcom finales or replay songs on Spotify 36 times in one day, why wouldn’t we be nostalgic for our own unfinished stories?

Why I Stayed

Spoiler alert: I didn’t get on the plane. And Jonathan and I didn’t become the Nashville-to-L.A. success story. Instead, I stayed home. I stayed because of the life I already loved in East Nashville, the stories I was already in the middle of telling, and—if I’m being completely honest—because I didn’t want to become someone else’s passenger. My life already felt messy and exhilarating in its own uniquely Nashville kind of way, and hitching it to someone else’s soundtrack felt like turning down the volume on my own.

It wasn’t an easy no. For weeks afterward, I obsessed over Jonathan’s Instagram, wondering whether he was dining beneath string lights at some impossibly chic vegan café or strumming in front of crowds who’d dub him the next John Mayer. But then, in moments of stillness, I’d remember why I’d stayed: for the smell of hot chicken wafting down Gallatin Avenue, for backyard bonfires with childhood friends, and for my own book of lyrics and prose that was just waiting to be written.

Leaving wouldn’t have been brave for me—it would’ve felt like running. And the dream following wasn’t mine. It was his.

The Romance of Real-Life Choices

At this point, you’re probably expecting me to say that everything worked out perfectly, right? That not going to L.A. unlocked all the things—fame, fortune, a Lifetime Original love story? Yeah, no. Life is far too messy and wonderfully weird for such a linear payoff.

What I’ve learned, though, is that romance isn’t always about grand leaps or candlelit gestures under twinkling skies. Sometimes, romance is about choosing yourself, staying put, and planting roots in the soil you’ve already tilled. (I mean, is there anything less romantic than spending years chasing someone else’s sun?)

Does that mean Jonathan wasn’t important to me? Absolutely not. He was. He’s part of my story, part of my song. But sometimes, it’s okay to let a chapter close. What’s important is how you live the chapters after.

Lessons from Saying No

For anyone wrestling with their Jonathan moment, I can’t tell you what to choose—I’d be lying if I said there’s a one-size-fits-all answer. But I can offer this:

  • Check in with Your Gut: This isn’t just a gluten-free wellness magazine slogan—your gut often knows the answer before you do. Listen closely.
  • Own Your Narrative: If you can’t picture yourself thriving on the road someone else is offering, chances are, it’s not your road. And that’s okay.
  • Don’t Fear the “What Ifs”: Wondering what could have been? Normal. Letting that consume you? Unnecessary. Every choice teaches you something about who you are.
  • Romance Changes Shapes: Sometimes, it’s a whirlwind L.A. romance. Other times, it’s an unforgettable love match between you and the life you ignored while daydreaming about another one.

Closing Credits

Now, when people ask if I ever regret not going, I smile and shake my head. Sure, L.A. seemed like it could’ve been everything: palm trees, possibilities, Jonathan strumming carefree melodies on a hillside. But y’all—it wasn’t my everything.

Sometimes, it’s not about the road less traveled. It’s about choosing the one that feels right for you. And when you do, you learn this: the person you pass by, the city you say goodbye to, and the “almosts” that collect like pennies in your pocket—they’re not failures. They’re simply proof you’re trying, loving, and living with your whole heart.

From where I stand now, the view’s pretty good. Sometimes, the best ride of all is the one you don’t take.