Why I Chose This Path

The Beach Boys, Breakups, and Big Questions

Growing up in Santa Barbara, where the sunsets flirt shamelessly with the horizon and every day feels like the opening sequence of a Nicholas Sparks movie, you’d think I’d have had my life path crystal clear from day one. After all, it’s the land of golden-hour hikes, avocado toast, and people who seem to have their personal branding completely dialed in.

But here’s the truth: I had no idea what I wanted to spend my life doing if it didn’t involve surfing (I’m terrible at it), becoming the next John Steinbeck (bold of me, I know), or fixing the broken hearts I accrued along the way (also not my strong suit).

I'd be sitting on Butterfly Beach, looking at the Pacific, and wondering things like, "What really connects people—with each other, to the planet, and to themselves?" These were the kind of big, unanswerable questions that didn’t come with a neat bullet-point action plan. Spoiler alert: they still don’t. But what I didn’t realize back then was that searching for answers was the whole point—and it would lead me to the life I’m now living.

The Bio-Diversity of Relationships

During undergrad at UC Santa Barbara, where my life oscillated between coastal restoration projects and late-night philosophical rants over burritos, I started noticing echoes between environmental work and the dating world. Conservation requires patience, curiosity, and an ability to dig beneath the surface to uncover hidden truths—sound familiar? Relationships, whether romantic or otherwise, work much the same.

Take the kelp forests off the California coast. (Brace yourself. I’m about to get nerdy on you.) When I worked on a research project examining marine ecosystems, I learned how kelp thrives when there’s balance: the right water temperatures, enough light, and just the right number of urchins so the whole thing doesn’t collapse into chaos. Relationships are no different. They thrive in balance—between individuality and togetherness, self-awareness and openness to others, and trial-and-error growth that’s occasionally messy but deeply rewarding.

Plus, I realized something else: just like the environment, relationships are inherently messy. No one gets through unscathed (please show me the human equivalent of a pristine coral reef, and I’ll give you my Netflix password), but even the bumps—the heartbreaks, the cringey first dates, the "what were we thinking?" exes—they’re part of the ecosystem we’re navigating.

This metaphor started sticking, and while I didn’t ditch environmental work right away, it planted the seeds for where I’d eventually go.

The Call of Storytelling

After undergrad, I joined an environmental consultancy, thinking I’d save ecosystems one strategic report at a time. Turns out, writing about root rot in eucalyptus trees didn’t exactly light my creative soul on fire. (No offense to eucalyptus; you’re lovely, just a little thirsty in the water-management sense.)

Instead, I found myself drawn to people’s stories—conversations with colleagues and strangers at coffee shops that felt way more intimate than they should have. People talked to me about their messy breakups, their fears of "failing at love," and their dreams of finding a complicated, imperfect version of "happily ever after." Somewhere between writing dry proposals and mentally narrating those conversations for fun, something clicked: I had more to say about the wildly unpredictable terrain of human connection than I ever could about invasive plants.

So I took a major detour—a graduate program in creative writing at Stanford. I chose it on sheer gut feeling and a playlist of Fleetwood Mac songs entirely too enthusiastic about second chances. And during those years, the dots began to connect. My long-standing fascination with how humans affect their environments (and vice versa) slowly shifted into a broader study of how we affect each other.

Proximity to the Pacific (and People)

Fast-forward to my current life in Santa Monica, where I’ve managed to strike a balance I’d once thought impossible: writing about relationships while staying rooted in the natural world that inspired me in the first place. Writing for This Publication is like an extension of my everyday observations—of love as a sea breeze that can sweep you off your feet or leave you chilled to the bone.

Living here, where palm trees sway unreasonably glamorously over art galleries and music venues, I’ve absorbed how much connection—not perfection—is the essence of both creative and romantic life. Yes, the sunny postcard version of LA fits the bill: rooftop dates, long walks along Ocean Avenue, and strangers bonding over parking woes. But what makes it feel real are the quieter, unvarnished moments. The vulnerability. The awkward jokes. The revelations found in the silence between the waves. This is where stories—and relationships—are formed, layer by layer.

Key Takeaways from My Journey

This isn’t to say I’ve “figured it out.” But, if you’ve made it this far, here are a few lessons my journey has taught me about connection—both to others and yourself:

  • Embrace the mess: Whether it’s love, career, or deciding whether double-texting is a declaration of interest or social embarrassment, life is messy. That’s where beauty lives.

  • Follow the breadcrumbs: Your life path might look more like spaghetti tossed on the floor than a clear-cut trail, and that’s okay. The detours shape you.

  • Take cues from nature: A healthy relationship—or any meaningful connection—is a bit like sustainable gardening. You need trust (good soil), shared values (sunlight), and yes, occasional weeding (constructive arguments, anyone?).

  • Stay curious: About yourself, about others, about whatever keeps you up at night wondering “But why?” Curiosity connects us to the world in ways we can’t predict.

Why Does Any of This Matter?

Because connection—the meaningful, messy, magical kind—is the heartbeat of everything. It’s why we care about the planet, why we pour our hearts into relationships, and why we wrestle with questions about how we fit into both the natural and social ecosystems around us.

The writer in me—and the part-time idealist—is starting to think that maybe the secret isn’t in getting it perfect. It’s about showing up: for the relationship, the journey, the slightly wobbly path you’re carving out for yourself. After all, even kelp forests grow through chaos.

And if anyone ever figures out how to perfectly navigate love or life, please let me know. I’ll buy the burritos—and take notes on how you managed it.