It started with the kind of ringtone you only realize you hate once it’s too late. My phone buzzed loudly against the kitchen counter, interrupting a perfectly peaceful morning. I’d been watching the sun rise over Boulder’s Flatirons, sipping coffee I’d taken a ridiculous amount of time to French press. The ringtone, obnoxiously peppy, felt like a betrayal of the serenity I’d so carefully crafted. Reluctantly, I picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Miles Chapin?” the voice on the other end asked. It was calm and confident, the polar opposite of my caffeine-deprived brain.

“Yes... who's this?”

And that’s when my life tilted just a little to the left.

What's the Worst That Could Happen?

Let me give you some backstory before we get to the call. At this point, I was recently out of a long-term relationship—the kind where you realize, about halfway in, that you’re better suited as dog co-parents than soulmates. Post-breakup, I was in that transitional space: half self-improvement, half existential crisis. I’d been journaling, hiking, avoiding Whole Foods (to sidestep potential ex-related run-ins), and overall trying to figure out what the hell people do after relationships that lasted through their entire late twenties.

Dating again felt like trying to summit Longs Peak in flip-flops—ill-equipped, vaguely ridiculous, and kind of terrifying. My friends, well-meaning but perhaps overly enthusiastic, kept trying to set me up.

“You’re ready, Miles!” They’d say. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

I don’t even know how to answer a question like that in the realm of dating. The worst that could happen? You fall in love with someone who pronounces the ‘p’ in ‘psychology.’ Or worse, someone who suggests matching fleece vests as a cute couples’ look.

Which is exactly why I was content to avoid the whole thing. Until the phone call.

Audacity in the Form of a Phone Call

The voice on the phone belonged to a woman named Megan, a writer I admired—someone whose work danced beautifully between essays on the Western landscape and personal explorations of connection. A mutual friend had given her a copy of my recently self-published memoir, Weathering the Rockies. (A bold title, honestly. It still makes me cringe a little.)

“I read it,” she said, her tone warm but composed, like she recognized her words were about to land with some weight. “And I have a proposition that might interest you.”

Proposition? I nearly spilled my coffee all over the counter. For context, writers like Megan inhabited a pedestal in my brain normally reserved for wilderness trailblazers, like John Muir or Cheryl Strayed. They were not the types to cold-call me while I was still in my pajamas.

She continued, “I’m organizing a series of workshops on storytelling and the environment. Would you like to join as one of the speakers? We’re also going to focus on relationships and how landscapes shape the way we connect—with others and with ourselves.”

I heard “relationships” and immediately panicked. Was this going to be some kind of thinly-veiled therapy fest? Would I be standing in front of 20 strangers, confessing why my ex and I couldn’t agree on couch cushions?

Still, I said yes. What else do you say when someone you think might secretly be a genius invites you to co-lead something that combines your greatest loves: the outdoors, storytelling, and deep conversations?

Landscapes, Love, and Learning (Oh My)

Fast forward three months, and there I was: perched on a stool under a sprawling Ponderosa pine, looking out at a group of participants who had signed up for this outdoor storytelling workshop. Megan was speaking passionately about the connections between geography and intimacy—the way certain places leave indelible marks on the relationships we form there. I stood there, ostensibly ready to contribute, but mostly just wishing I’d worn a less wrinkled flannel.

When my turn came, I faltered. I had prepared to be tactical and thought-provoking, but the real question came out of nowhere:

“How many of you have places in your lives you love because of—or in spite of—the people connected to them?”

Every hand went up, tentatively at first, then more confidently. And slowly, organically, this conversation took shape between us. One woman described how she always visited her hometown beach after her divorce; a man shared that his love for mountain biking came solely from trying to impress his high school crush.

I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I do remember the feeling of it—like realizing that we’d all been talking about relationships in black-and-white, when there were a thousand shades of color waiting to be explored.

Out of My Element (But Home Again)

That one phone call and those few days out in the woods shifted something in me. For one, I started seeing relationships—past, present, and maybe even future—as less like puzzles to be solved and more like stories to be explored. It wasn’t about having the perfect outline or script, but rather finding the moments when connection felt as natural as breathing in pine-scented air after the first autumn frost.

And it wasn’t just romantic relationships, either. This unapologetic blending of storytelling and self-reflection somehow made me braver about life, period. Even the friendships I’d once considered steady as bedrock seemed more layered and worth examining.

Megan’s phone call was unexpected, no question about it. But in hindsight, so are most of the connections that actually shape us. They sneak in when you’re spiraling from a breakup or too caffeinated to think straight. Sometimes, it’s a dramatic change—the kind of landscape-altering earthquake you feel in your bones. Other times, it’s more like wind erosion: barely noticeable at first but undeniably present over time.

Lessons from the Unexpected

That call taught me more about vulnerability than I ever could have imagined—more, honestly, than I’d learned in my previous 28 years of relationships put together. Here’s what I discovered, boiled down because you’re probably skimming this at unhealthy scrolling speed:

  • Say Yes Before You’re Ready: Life rarely gives you perfect notice before throwing something beautiful in your lap. You don’t need to have all the answers to give an opportunity a shot.
  • Lean Into Weird Connections: Mountains, beaches, corner cafés—they all hold pieces of who you are. Don’t be afraid to mine those connections for deeper understanding, no matter how small or strange they seem.
  • Relationships are Stories: Some chapters are filled with joy; others, heartbreak. But the setting—where it all unfolds—deserves just as much attention as the plot twists.

From Flirt to Familiar

Looking back, saying “yes” to Megan’s phone call wasn’t just a professional step. It was the start of me learning to be open to something bigger than past heartbreaks or future uncertainties. I don’t know where you are in your own journey—maybe flirting with new possibilities or growing familiar with a landscape you thought you knew inside and out—but here’s one thing I’ll say with absolute certainty: The next unexpected call could change everything.

Even if your ringtone is deeply, irreparably annoying.