It was a Monday afternoon, unremarkable except for the faint smell of burnt coffee wafting through my apartment as I sifted through unread emails like a caffeinated archaeologist. My phone lit up with a number I didn’t recognize. Normally, I’d let unknown numbers go to voicemail faster than a bad date exiting through a restaurant’s back door, but something compelled me to answer. Turns out, some calls you don’t let go.

“Hi, Tiana. I’m not sure if you remember me,” the voice said, tinged with slight hesitation. “But I wanted to talk to you about something.”

The next ten minutes would reroute more than my afternoon—they would change the way I understood love, relationships, and every awkward misstep that came before. But let me back up just enough to set the stage.

The Backstory: Love in the Time of Chaos

In my early twenties, I was an absolute mess when it came to love. I’m talking early-2000s romantic-comedy mess: think Bridget Jones screaming into the void two pints deep, but minus the glossy redemption arc. My tastes were eclectic, ranging from the artsy, brooding guys who couldn’t commit to plants, let alone people, to the emotionally available-yet-oddly-inappropriate men who wore cargo shorts by choice.

After a series of flings that fizzled, I decided to call it quits on romance, believing that perhaps my future love interest was a good book and a well-paired glass of wine. It wasn’t that I stopped believing in love altogether. I just felt … tired. Tired of the games, the wondering, the mutual breadcrumbing that passed for connection. So, imagine my delightful nonchalance when a friend of a friend—a kind but distant acquaintance—called me out of the blue.

The Call: A Life-Changing Intersection

“Do you believe in soulmates?” he asked, as casually as someone might ask for the Wi-Fi password or if they could borrow your car keys.

I paused mid-scroll, my brain working overtime to process both the curveball question and the calming sincerity in his tone. Soulmates? Like, actual soulmates? I thought concepts like “soulmates” were reserved for Nicholas Sparks novels or Lifetime Christmas movies where everyone wears too many scarves.

“I guess I used to,” I said, attempting to muddle through the existential ambush without sounding like an over-caffeinated cynic. “But … I don’t know, maybe it’s just about finding someone whose weirdness matches yours, you know?”

“I like that,” he responded thoughtfully. “That’s kind of … what I wanted to talk about.”

It turned out this wasn’t some TikTok-style confession gone viral, but rather an invitation to reflect. Let’s call him “Jake”—not his real name, but we’re protecting the innocent here. Jake was thinking about his relationships, past and present, and something about my life—or maybe my mistakes—seemed like the note that could help him finish his song. Except here’s the twist: instead of asking for advice, Jake encouraged me to evaluate myself.

A Framework for Reflection

That phone call, as serendipitous as it seemed, wasn’t about romance—not directly. Instead, it was about connection, understanding the structures we build—or bulldoze—in order to make space for people in our lives. Being asked to deep-dive into my own dating history felt simultaneously invasive and freeing. I realized in those ten impossibly reflective minutes that I wasn’t burnt out on love; I was burnt out on the wrong kind of love.

Here’s the framework I shared with Jake, though in retrospect, it was probably more for me than for him.

  1. Ask: What Am I Holding Onto? It’s wildly underrated to take stock of your emotional baggage. Mine felt like I’d been cramming all my past issues into a suitcase so small it could serve as a metaphorical overhead bin struggle. I still carried anxiety from past relationships, internalized rejection, and, well, unrealistic standards imported straight from rom-com screenplays. Jake’s call forced me to unpack.

  2. Know Your Worth—But Share It Wisely My biggest dating problem was overinvesting in people who treated my time and attention like the free samples at Costco. I needed to stop auditioning for roles in other people’s lives. As Jake listened to my semi-rant about why everyone should have boundaries (I swear I heard a chuckle on the other end), he responded: “Maybe that’s the person you’re waiting for—someone who sees that worth.” It stuck with me.

  3. Focus on Intentional, Not Perfect Good relationships aren’t flawless; they’re intentional. They’re messy but forward-moving, stacked on open communication and a weird blend of patience and effort. Jake confessed that he hadn’t always shown authentic effort toward women he cared for—and that realization had become his north star toward finding better love. It made me think about my own patterns, too.

The Takeaway: Every Call Counts

When we hung up, I didn’t feel enlightened so much as cracked open, like someone had popped a window in my tightly sealed worldview. Jake’s questions stirred something in me—not a realization about “the one,” but a deeper connection to myself. That phone call wasn’t just an entry in the “important moments” archive—it was a call-to-action for the way I was living.

Not long after, I began recalibrating what I looked for (and tolerated) in relationships. My bar was no longer set somewhere between “slightly interested” and “able to text back within a week." It shot higher, bolstered by the realization that love isn’t finding someone to fix your cracks—it’s about someone who sees your cracked edges, quirks, and all, and has the courage to stay anyway.

Fast forward a few years: Jake and I are both in better places, relationship-wise and otherwise. Every now and then, I think back to that random Monday phone call, marveling at how unpredictable life can be. Sometimes people show up as mirrors, revealing who we are and reminding us what we deserve.

So, to paraphrase Phoebe Buffay (Friends fans, you saw this coming), maybe soulmates are the people who make you a better version of yourself—whether that’s a stranger, an old friend, or even yourself. If a random call can do that, well, excuse me while I start answering more unknown numbers.

You never know who—or what—you’ll find on the other line.