I am asked often, “Why wine?” As in—how, and why, did I choose to work in wine?

Sometimes, depending on who’s asking or how it’s asked, that question can carry a loaded undertone—one that implies, “How is it that you, a Black person, are a wine professional?” I’ve never given much energy to that tone. Instead, I respond with, “Why teacher? Why potter? Why doctor?” Why do most people choose their professions?

But more often, it’s a question born of genuine curiosity—coming from people for whom wine has always felt elusive. I understand that. How does one even begin to pursue a career in something that feels incomprehensible? Especially when most don’t know the full breadth of the wine world.

The question is often then followed by, “What was the one wine that did it for you?” People expect a romantic story—a transformative sip that changed the course of my life.

But I don’t have that story.

In fact, I never intended to spend the last decade in wine. I quite literally blindsided myself—if that’s even possible.

I was a happy bread baker. Exhausted, but happy. After years of early mornings in the bakery, my 27-year-old body was feeling much older than it was. I needed a break, and I needed pause to map out my next steps toward becoming a head baker or opening my own little bakery. When, where, and how were of no concern. I just needed a pause.

My resume was barely half a page long, and the thought of finding a job with little experience outside of baking, was overwhelming. At the same time, I felt the freedom of being young—I could go in any direction. I just had to figure out which. 

Wine came to mind.

During my university years, I’d taken an elective called International Beverage Management—a basic, broad overview of wine. I loved it. It was a completely new subject that touched on history, geography, agriculture, and culture. I enjoyed the class so much that while studying abroad in Piedmont, one of Italy’s major wine regions, I wrote to the professor and asked to be his teaching assistant for the next semester. There were no other wine classes at our university, so I figured grading assignments and rereading the course materials would help deepen my understanding.

While in Italy, I traveled often with some of my classmates—Valle d’Aosta, Rome, Siena, Cinque Terre, Parma, Modena, Taormina. There was something familiar in the Italian way of life—the culture around food and community, in particular, reminded me of home in Uganda. After nearly a decade in the U.S., it was in Italy that I saw something close to what I knew growing up: community of neighbors, friends, and family, gathering to eat and connect. I loved going to the markets to pick up local, in-season fruits and vegetables. I loved cooking and sharing meals with my roommates and new friends. The slowness of life resonated deeply with me.

It was in Italy that I saw wine and food as part of a culture’s joie de vivre—not an event, not a spectacle, but a way of life. Wherever we went, wine was on the table, like a carafe of water. No one made a fuss about it. If you wanted to drink, you did. If not, that was fine too. Sometimes the wine came in unlabeled bottles—house wines made by the family or a neighbor. Simple, honest.

My classmates and I arrived in mid-September for our semester, just in time for grape harvest. On clear days, we walked to and from class with the Alps in view, flanked by vineyards on both sides. For weeks, we passed vine farmers harvesting. I didn’t know then how deeply that imagery would settle into my memory.

I wouldn’t realize the impact of witnessing wine and food embedded in a culture’s way of life until years later.  My time in Italy, while brief, laid the foundation for how I’ve approached food and wine ever since.

When I returned from that semester abroad, inspired and full of big ideas, I dreamed—as only a young, inexperienced person might—of opening a tiny bistro. I envisioned a wood-fired oven where everything on the menu was cooked. I imagined hosting seasonal  dinners to celebrate the bounty of New England. I wanted a one-page, ever-changing menu grounded in sustainability and seasonality. I saw wine as the final touch on the table—for those who wanted it.

So, before graduation, I moved six hours from home to apprentice as a bread baker. I’d found the listing on Good Food Jobs and barely read the full description. All I needed to know was: “…baking in a wood-fired oven.” I had to learn if I wanted to run my dream bistro.

Six months later, after long days on my feet and only one day off a week, I was obsessed with sourdough. The apprenticeship ended, and I returned closer to home to continue baking. But the bakeries I admired were all in remote corners of New England. I wasn’t ready for more isolation after rural Pennsylvania.

I finally landed a job at a non-wood-fired bakery in Boston. Not ideal, but I told myself it was good to expand beyond sourdough. Nearly three years passed, including a year of early mornings that began at 2 a.m., until I hit a wall.

I turned to wine as a break from baking—with every intention of returning. 

That was ten years ago.

I started in a high-end wine shop in Boston. With only an elective and a semester abroad under my belt, I had a steep learning curve. Thankfully, my employers paid for my first wine certification. Weekly tastings with reps helped sharpen my palate and deepen my wine language.

Wanting to dive further, I went to work for a distributor. I represented one of the best wine portfolios in the market, showing case producers from France, Italy, Spain, Germany, and California. The deeper I went, the more I realized how far removed the wine world was from what I’d experienced in Italy. There was no cultural connection—just prestige and intimidation. Consumers second-guessed their palates, even afraid to pair wine with food for fear of “doing it wrong.”

I traced that disconnect back to the industry itself—where wine professionals were revered and relied on to dictate the what, when, where, and how. And in trying to simplify wine for consumers, the language became alienating. The result wasn’t approachability—it was inaccessibility.

In the early years, I was a student—absorbing everything, not questioning it. Just like when I was learning English, I accepted the contradictions of the English language. But once I gained fluency, I started noticing: something isn’t right. The language of wine wasn’t inviting people in—it was keeping them out.

I wanted wine to feel like the dinner tables in Italy. I wanted people to connect to wine through stories—of winemakers, of vine farmers, of place. I wanted friends and families to come together, to eat and drink and not overthink it.

After five years, I found myself losing passion. It wasn’t the wine—I still loved wine. But something had to change in how people accessed it.

So I left my job, and I started The Wine Linguist.