They say life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans. I say life is what happens at the dinner table when you’re 15, trying to explain to your Jamaican parents that you don’t want to be an engineer, a lawyer, or (God forbid) a doctor. For me, it was the moment I told my dad that I wanted to be "a writer." Silence. A sip of Red Stripe. A long pause. And then: “Yuh cyan write policy den?”

That was the beginning of a path I didn’t fully understand at the time but somehow knew I had to take. It wasn’t about rebelling against my parents’ hard-earned vision for me—it was about finding a way to tell stories that meant something, to bring ideas to life that could shape or inspire others. Here’s a deeper dive into why I took this road, potholes and all, and how it all ties back to those roots at the table in northeast D.C.

Where It All Began: Stories Around the Table

Growing up in my household, stories were currency. Whether it was my dad regaling us with tales of Kingston street parties or my mom sharing hospital anecdotes that could have rivaled any season of “Grey’s Anatomy,” storytelling was how we connected. It wasn’t just about the facts but the soul behind them. But here’s the thing about Jamaican families—they don’t do half-stories. You either commit fully or don’t bother at all.

That same energy carried me beyond the dinner table. At school, I’d weave narratives in essays not because they were assigned but because it felt natural. My teachers encouraged it. My friends doubted I’d ever get paid for it. And somewhere in between the storytelling magic of Ralph Ellison and the unabashed boldness of Chuck Brown’s go-go beats, I realized that crafting stories—real ones, charged with emotion and impact—was my thing.

The idea that words could move people wasn’t just a revelation; it was a lifeline. At the core of every “you-should-really-consider-law-school” debate with my parents, there was an unspoken truth: I didn’t want to just be successful. I wanted to matter.

From Political Memo Pads to Love Letters (Kind Of)

Initially, I thought my desire to write would land me in the policy world. And for a while, it did. Straight out of Georgetown, I was all about Capitol Hill life—writing memos, pitching legislators, rubbing elbows (and trying desperately not to spill punch) at D.C. fundraisers. The work mattered, sure, but I kept feeling like something was missing. Motion without meaning, like those group dates where everyone’s pretending to laugh but no one really wants to be there.

Then came the curveball: During a late-night writing session on a speech draft, my then-boss barked: “This is too poetic, Marcus. We need bare-bones policy here—not Baldwin prose!” Ouch. But the truth was unavoidable—he wasn’t wrong. I was writing for impact, not efficiency, and in doing so, I often wrestled my way into storytelling without even realizing it. Policy may require precision, but my heart gravitated toward the pull of narrative, the freedom to dig into life’s messiness and meaning.

That realization felt a lot like being ghosted after the first date: confusing, a little painful, but—if you give it time, liberating. I started carving out time to write fiction alongside my day job. And when an op-ed I pitched to a national newspaper went viral (mostly thanks to the magic of moms forwarding links), I knew I was onto something. People resonated with my voice, a mix of wit, heart, and unabashed honesty. That was my yellow brick road moment.

Love Lessons from Stubborn Careers

People think falling into your “purpose” is like falling in love—a magical click, fireworks, violins in the background. Let me tell you, it’s more like figuring out a complicated situationship. At first, you’re infatuated. Writing felt thrilling. I could pour myself out, layering emotion, humor, and culture—my whole self—into the words I stitched together. But just like a one-sided crush, I had doubts.

“Could I really make this work?” “What if I’m just wasting time?” I even tried to “date around” professionally, wondering whether other opportunities—ones with fatter paychecks and fewer existential crises—would do. Spoiler alert: none of them worked out. Every time I considered leaving writing behind, I felt like I’d be ghosting the one thing that truly knew me.

And maybe that’s the takeaway here—that pursuing what you’re called to do isn’t about the head-over-heels moments. It’s about sitting with the doubt, understanding that the work won’t always be pretty or smooth, and committing to it anyway. Not unlike maintaining a lasting relationship.

How It Ties Back (Hint: Connection Is Everything)

So how does my journey as a writer connect back to relationships, the one area in life we all seem to overthink? It’s simple: writing—for me—is about connection. Every word, every phrase, is meant to tap into the core of someone else’s experience and say, “Hey, I see you.” And isn’t that what relationships are all about?

Navigating my writing path has taught me lessons that bleed into dating and connections:
- Be honest, but not brutal. Whether it’s a personal essay or a heart-to-heart, truth matters. But delivery—even more so.
- Don’t rush the story. Relationships, like great writing, are best when you let them breathe. No one became a bestseller on page one.
- Embrace the messy edits. Just as my early drafts leave plenty for improvement, relationships require patience and revision. That’s the beauty of it.

The Future: Keep Choosing Your Path

Choosing this path hasn’t always been easy—there are days when I doubt myself. (Who doesn’t, though? Ever been on a third date thinking, “I’m not sure if this is a vibe or a waste of good Italian food?” Same energy.) But looking back, I see how everything connects. My parents’ determination, my community’s storytelling tradition, and my effort to highlight voices that don’t always get the mic—those roots ground me. And the relationships I’ve nurtured—some hard-fought, others effortless—continue to inspire the stories I write.

So, whether it’s on the page or in the broader sense of life, the lesson is this: Stick with what resonates deeply, even when the road is rocky. Pursue what matters, even when it’s unclear how it’ll pan out. And above all, keep telling your story; there’s always someone out there waiting to hear it.

Now if only I could convince my dad that writing about relationships counts as “policy”…