I used to think the word "home" came with a rosy filter. Like those fuzzy shots in a Hallmark movie where the protagonist discovers their true calling in a place filled with fresh-baked pies, family traditions, and folksy charm. But if you grow up somewhere as rugged and raw as a ranch near Bozeman, Montana, “home” looks a little different. It’s more like a Coen Brothers film—filled with an equal dose of breathtaking beauty and situations that make you question your life choices. My relationship with home? It's complicated. Think Ross and Rachel, but with cow manure.

Here’s the paradox—growing up in Big Sky Country taught me everything I love about life. But it’s also made me question what’s worth holding onto and what I need to let go of to grow. Sound familiar? Whether you come from a small town, a sprawling suburb, or a city neighborhood that still smells like last week’s garbage truck, chances are "home" has left its mark on you, too. And if you're anything like me, untangling those feelings is as messy as trying to milk an uncooperative cow. (Tip: Don’t. You’ll lose that battle and probably a shirt sleeve.)

The Charms That Keep You Coming Back

Growing up on a ranch sounds glamorous to some people—probably the same folks who romanticize the "life-changing magic" of owning a sourdough starter. Truth is, it’s a unique blend of humbling and awe-inspiring. At sunrise, I could watch light spread across fields of fescue, turning them into gold. The wild silence of the land felt like being let in on a secret. And oh, the stars—no skyscrapers to dim them, no noise to compete with their stories.

That connection to nature? It fueled me. It also followed me, stubborn as a barn cat, into adulthood. It’s why I once laughed out loud in an overpriced cocktail bar when someone referred to tofu as “farm to table.” (Buddy, everything on my childhood dinner plate was farm to table. Also, we called it "beans.")

But there’s a downside to homespun simplicity. That sturdy ranch upbringing also made me crave space for dreams bigger than the ranch. Familiarity can be grounding, but it can also keep you fenced in. After all, as much as I loved those endless horizons, they often came with the sense that I’d never outrun their expectations. So I left—with a duffel full of books, a lot of hope, and not much of a plan.

Why "Leaving Home" Feels Like Dating

Think of leaving home like breaking up with a high school sweetheart. On the one hand, you’re dying to explore life beyond the bubble of homecoming dances and shared cartons of fries. On the other hand, that bubble is the only thing you’ve known. So what happens when you leave? Initially, it’s thrilling. The “Montana” in me was replaced by “City Willow,” who learned to navigate airports without panicking and could order something fancier than a house beer. But eventually, the honeymoon phase fades. You start noticing the things you never appreciated about home before—like how cities rarely smell like pine or feel steady underfoot.

And just like that, you’re pulling up Zillow, scoping out your old neighborhood, and wondering if you could stand to move back for “just a little while.” Except when you actually visit, it’s clear you’ve outgrown parts of it, even if you never stop loving where it all began. That’s relationships for you—whether with a person or a place, they’re rarely all or nothing.

The Hard Truth: Small Towns Don't Always Feel So Small

When you grow up in a place with more cattle than people, you learn early on that everyone knows your business. Nosey? Sure. Charming? Sometimes. But here’s the rub: if you’re someone who wants to reinvent themselves—to step out of the shadows of family expectations or hometown dynamics—it’s not so easy when everyone thinks they already "know" you.

As a kid, I wasn’t “Willow the Writer” so much as “Willow, the one who’s terrible at roping calves but decent with a shovel.” People form ideas of who you are, and changing that narrative feels like a Herculean task. It’s why so many of us run—to college, to big cities, to anywhere someone might see us with fresh eyes. But the trick is, unless you deal with your internal compass (and maybe therapy), you’ll just end up packing those formative insecurities in your suitcase.

Speaking of insecurities, living in transient places as an adult can occasionally leave you nostalgic for people who really knew you. Those who didn’t need backstory. Which brings me to my next realization: as much as I left home, I’ve also spent a lot of energy trying to recreate it elsewhere—a place where I could be both known and accepted. Spoiler alert: that’s not about geography. That’s about connection.

What Home Teaches You About Life (and Relationships)

Here’s the thing about home—it doesn’t have to be perfect to shape you. In fact, it never will be. The challenges it throws at you are part of the deal. My parents’ horse-breeding business failed as often as it succeeded, and sometimes paying bills involved pulling 16-hour days in Montana’s punishing winters. Growing up in this volatile rhythm taught me resilience and how to improvise when things don’t go as planned.

But my favorite lesson? Home taught me the importance of showing up for the people and things you love—daily, consistently, without drama. That’s the kind of wisdom you can carry into any relationship worth keeping. Romances full of fireworks are fun, sure, but real love is waking up on mornings when the “grass” feels not-so-green—and choosing to water it anyway.

Moving Forward Without Losing the Past

So, where does that leave me? Somewhere between wanting to live next door to a Trader Joe’s and still being the kind of person who gets misty-eyed at the first snowfall on a Montana ridge. The truth is, no matter where I live—or who I love—Montana is woven into me. And just like any relationship, it has its flaws. There’s beauty here, yes, but also isolation. Tranquility, but also the occasional wave of small-town gossip that spreads faster than wildfire in a dry season.

But these contradictions? They’re part of what makes “home” real. Because at its core, your connection to a place (or a person) doesn’t always make logical sense. Unpacking that love/hate dynamic might take years—or a lifetime. And that’s okay. Love isn’t straightforward. It’s messy, contradictory, and profound in ways we’ll never fully understand.

So, whether your “home” is the exact place you want to run from, or the one you swear you’ll return to someday, take some advice from an old ranch kid: Always honor where you came from, but don’t ever let it fence you in. After all, you never know where the trail might lead—but trust me, the journey will always feel sweeter when you know where your roots are buried.