I didn’t set out to discover my life’s purpose—if I’m being honest, I thought “finding your purpose” was something people did on yoga retreats or in the wake of a dramatic breakup while rewatching Eat Pray Love. My own revelation didn’t involve wandering through Bali, but instead, it snuck up on me one gray November afternoon, thanks to a boat, a broken heart, and a truly terrible clam chowder recipe. Stay with me—I promise this story goes somewhere.

The Not-So-Great Escape to Rockport

Let me set the scene: I’d been freshly dumped by someone I was convinced was “the one.” Spoiler: he wasn’t. Envision, if you will, the quintessential New England heartbreak aesthetic—I was holed up in my family’s creaky sea captain’s home, sipping bourbon-spiked cider, and staring morosely at the angry waves crashing onto the shore. Picture Kate Winslet in The Holiday, but swap the English countryside for the rocky coast of Maine, and you’re in the ballpark.

After a week of wallowing (and dispatching several cookies into the great unknown), my mom suggested I “get some air.” This always meant one thing in our family: the boatyard. If you’ve ever thought mending a broken heart on a November dock sounds like the wrong prescription, you’d be correct. The wind whipped so violently that my scarf tried to strangle me, and the sky felt like it was one bad breakup away from raining tears of its own. But then, as I fumbled with some ropes on the deck, my mom handed me a family logbook—a dusty, leather-bound relic dated 1843.

“You might like this,” she said, placing it gently in my hands. And, oh boy, did I.

Old Logs, New Lessons

The logbook belonged to one of my maritime ancestors, compiled during trade voyages between Boston and Barbados. At first, it seemed a dry (pun intended) account of cargo and coordinates, but within its weathered pages, I found something unexpected: they wrote about love. And not the Nicholas Sparks kind. Interspersed with shipping inventories were musings on missed sweethearts, moonlit nights off the coast of the Azores, and even a stanza of poetry etched in rudimentary script about the joys of returning home.

Now, let’s be real—dating advice from 1843 isn’t exactly universally transferable. For instance: “To depart from her gaze is as if to be shipwrecked and maroon’d.” We may not use quite so many apostrophes in modern-day flirty texts, but hey, the sentiment holds. What struck me was how deeply introspective these sailors were, even in an era where expressing emotions (or even bathing regularly) wasn’t exactly the norm.

I left that dock with sea-salt tang on my lips, windburnt cheeks, and the distinct feeling that I’d just unlocked a truth about myself.

That Time I Tried to Be Someone Else

Looking back, so much of my heartbreak stemmed from trying to fit into someone else’s life at the expense of my own. I dated a guy who thought "lobster boils" were an overly elaborate country club meal. Another subtly mocked the way I slipped into Downeast accents when grocery clerks asked, “Paper or plastic?” It was like showing them the most authentic, sea-sprayed version of myself felt too risky—it was easier to sand down my edges, weather a few compromises, and “blend in.”

But the logbook reminded me of something big: my edges—rocky as the coastline I grew up on—weren’t something to smooth over. They were something to celebrate. Those deeply personal confessions from sailors who, frankly, had better things to do than wax poetic? They reminded me that being vulnerable doesn’t make you weak. It makes you memorable.

How Maritime Lore Became My Compass

If this sounds like the setup to me becoming a lighthouse keeper or launching a pirate-themed romance novel empire, I get it. While I lacked the mustaches and swashbuckling spirit for either, I couldn’t shake the feeling that storytelling and connection were in my blood. So, I headed home, brewed a (correctly seasoned) chowder, and started writing my own thoughts on love and life—first in journals, then as creative pieces.

I’d love to say this all fell together seamlessly, but the path wasn’t linear. I moonlighted as a waitress at a seafood joint where I nicknamed one coworker “Scallop Dan” after he dropped an entire tray of entrées. I wrote fluffier pieces for travel blogs, resisted the compulsion to bake breakup scones for half my friends, and wrestled with imposter syndrome so intense I could feel it lurking like a fog over Penobscot Bay. But somewhere along the way, the words started coming easier—stories of rocky exteriors, deep waters, and the universal longing to anchor somewhere safe. And readers—unexpectedly, miraculously—resonated with them.

What Sailing Taught Me About Relationships

As I returned to the logbook and its salty advice, I extracted a few practical parallels between navigating at sea and navigating relationships. (I’m fully aware this is the kind of metaphor teachers love and my exes would probably roll their eyes at, but bear with me.)

  1. Keep Your Bearings (Self-Awareness Matters)
    Before you set sail, you have to know your coordinates. In relationships, that means knowing your own needs, quirks, and aspirations. If a partner can’t embrace your Maine-isms—or you’re brushing off theirs—you’re setting sail without a compass.

  2. Mind the Weather (Watch for Red Flags)
    Stormy skies don’t always clear up, folks. If someone consistently dismisses, diminishes, or disregards you, that’s a forecast you can’t afford to ignore. Learn to read the clouds—and your gut instincts.

  3. Adjust Your Sails (Growth Is Key)
    A sailboat doesn’t yell back at the wind; it adjusts itself to navigate the shift. Relationships need the same level of flexibility. Learn to pivot, to change direction as tides ebb and flow. But never let yourself be completely blown off course.

  4. Anchor Safely (Home Is Everything)
    The beauty of being out on the open sea? Knowing you have a harbor waiting. A healthy relationship, just like a sturdy anchor, shouldn’t weigh you down permanently—but it should feel grounding when you need it most.

My Second Chance at Purpose—and Love

These days, I’m still piecing together ideas in the quiet upstairs corner of our family home. It smells faintly of cedarwood and chewed pencil erasers up here, and my window’s view of the harbor is the kind of serotonin boost writers dream of. Every so often, I wander outside, where I sometimes leave little offerings by the family logbook—a bottle of sea glass I found, or an old newspaper clipping about lobstering laws.

As for love? It took time, but I eventually met someone who didn’t just appreciate my quirks, but shared them. He’s got the kind of laugh that echoes down the shoreline, uses lobster bibs with zero shame, and secretly believes we were married in another life aboard a schooner. This time, I brought my edges to the forefront. I told every goofy, salty, deeply authentic story in my arsenal, and to my relief, he loved them—and me—for exactly what I am.

The Takeaway: Your Purpose Is Probably Already in You

Discovering my purpose wasn’t about finding something new and shiny; it was about rediscovering something I’d forgotten. The tangled connections between love, storytelling, and self-expression were already there—I just had to lean into the tide instead of fighting it.

And you, dear reader? If you’re staring at your proverbial waves, wondering if you’ll ever find your own purpose, don’t forget: it’s possible it’s been with you all along, waiting for you to open a dusty logbook (or dive into that thing you’ve been too afraid to share). Life is messy. So are relationships. But the mess is where the magic happens.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some scallops to sauté—and a logbook to reread.