Ever feel like your life might be an elaborate episode of a rom-com—complete with the dramatic, wide-eyed moment where the heroine stands at a crossroads, weighing two impossibly different futures? For me, that split-screen scene happened a few years ago on a quiet beach in La Jolla. The air smelled like salt and eucalyptus, my bare feet sinking into cool sand, when I had to decide: do I follow the steady rhythm of a life I knew—marine biology—or take a flying, barefoot leap toward writing? Spoiler alert: writing won out. But sometimes, in the smaller, quieter moments, I still think about the path I didn’t take: wetsuits, ocean graphs, and a lot more field notes about coral reefs.

This article isn’t about regret, though. It’s about choice—those exhilarating, terrifying, hold-your-breath decisions we make that shape everything else. Maybe you’re facing choices too: whether to stay in your comfort zone or jump toward a new relationship, a new career, or heck, a new hobby like knitting alpaca socks. Big decisions are unavoidable, but they’re also incredible teachers. Trust me, I’ve learned a lot (and fumbled a lot). Let’s dig into it.

Chapter 1: Sliding Doors—or Tide Gates?

Making a life-altering decision isn’t the same as choosing between tacos and sushi on date night (although why not both?). These are the soul-stirring, gut-wrenching, stay-awake-staring-at-the-ceiling types of choices. For me, the decision to leave marine biology wasn't clear-cut. I grew up steeped in ocean wonder. My mom, a marine biologist, turned tidepools into enchanted realms, where crabs scuttled like tiny armored knights. Studying marine biology felt like the obvious choice: stable, practical, and anchored to my roots.

But writing nagged like an uninvited seagull stealing your French fries. In college, I’d sneak off from lab reports to draft essays about surfers catching golden-hour waves. I traded lectures on salinity tolerance for literary analysis binges at coffee shops. Writing was never the "safe" option, though—it wasn't even a realistic one unless your idea of stability includes a wobbly stack of publication rejections and questionable ramen for dinner.

Still, the ocean connection lingered. It felt like breaking up with a part of myself. For those of you choosing between two loves—two cities, two people, two versions of yourself—you’ll get it. Too often, the road not taken feels so permanent, like the unpicked road seals itself off with barbed wire and a “Keep Out” sign. In reality, it’s more like paddling out toward one wave, leaving another to roll on untouched. You can mourn it, but you also have to trust the one you’ve chosen.

Chapter 2: For Every Yes, There’s a No

The hardest truth about making big decisions? Saying yes to one thing means saying no to something else. That FOMO can hit like a rogue wave. For years after choosing to write full-time, I tortured myself with “what ifs.” What if I’d joined a research dive team in Hawai'i and traveled the world, snorkel in hand? What if I’d been the next Jane Goodall, but for whales? (Dramatic, I know, but isn’t life drama half the fun?)

I used to scroll Instagram—dangerous territory—and spiral. Research colleagues were out tagging pelagic sharks while I was curled in bed with my laptop, trying to string coherent sentences together between bouts of imposter syndrome. My guilt felt like that one friend who texts, “Just checking in!” while secretly dragging you for missing their party. Not helpful.

Here’s what I’ve learned, though, and maybe it’ll help you too: saying no doesn’t erase your connection to something. I didn’t lose the ocean; now I write about it. It shows up in my essays, in metaphors about swimming through life’s complexities. Sometimes, when my deadlines allow, I still tidepool, watching anemones bloom and retreat like slow flowers. You can draw inspiration from the choices you didn’t make, weaving them into what you’ve chosen instead. Who says you can’t have both in some way?

Chapter 3: Lessons From the Water

Let’s talk takeaways. If my experience of wrestling with big decisions taught me anything, it’s this:

  • 1. The "Right" Decision Doesn’t Always Feel Right Immediately.
    Let’s be real—choosing writing over marine biology wasn’t one of those instant-clarity moments where the heavens open and choirs sing. It felt more like a terrifying wipeout. But decisions, like waves, need time to settle. Stick with your choice long enough to see where it takes you.

  • 2. Not All Connections Need to Be Burned.
    Choosing doesn’t mean abandoning. I didn’t quit the ocean; I shifted my relationship with it. Whether you’re picking between two people, industries, or dreams, remember: the road not taken might still weave back into your story.

  • 3. Guilt is a Useless Passenger.
    I spent years mourning the life I didn’t choose, like it was some tragic alternate reality. But guilt and regret weigh you down like an over-packed scuba tank. Let them go—your time is better spent diving into the life you did choose.

Chapter 4: When the Beach is Quieter

Life’s big decisions often sound dramatic in hindsight, but here’s the thing: true clarity often sneaks in quietly. These days, I wake up to write before the world gets noisy. My breakfast coffee sits on the deck where I grew up, overlooking the same Pacific waves my mom used to study. Do I still think about the road not taken? All the time. There’s a bittersweet beauty in that thought.

But here’s what grounds me: every decision we make shapes who we become. Maybe I didn’t end up in wetsuits every day, but I’m still tied to those waters—through writing, through remembering, through never regretting what I’ve built.

So if you’re staring at your own fork in the road right now, I offer this: take heart. The road not taken isn’t gone forever. The beauty lies in choosing, in committing, in trusting that what’s for you will find you. And if you occasionally look back? That’s okay. Good stories are never about one-road journeys anyway.