I’m not sure when it happened, but somewhere between my third attempt to lasso a loose calf as a teen (spoiler: I missed every time) and my first heartbreak in college, I started to realize that the two aren’t so different. Both involve unrelenting chaos, a sense of urgency, and the very real risk of falling flat on your face. Life, relationships, and everything that holds meaning to us—they all have this rugged, untamed quality, much like the Colorado mountains I grew up in. Maybe that’s why I chose this path, why I’ve spent my life weaving together stories and lessons from the frontier of feelings.
The mountains taught me simplicity. Relationships taught me complexity. And somehow, in that messy and magical intersection, I’ve found a reason to keep writing.
Love and Leather Saddles: The Early Days
I grew up in a small town where cell service was as unpredictable as the weather, and flirting mostly meant shy smiles over dusty boots at the town rodeo. My parents ran a horse outfitting business, which meant I spent a lot of time on trails, guiding tourists through the San Juans while they searched for breathtaking views to post to their social media accounts (long before that was a thing). I’d ride alongside them and soak in their stories—middle-aged couples still bickering about who’d forgotten the picnic blanket, newlyweds stealing kisses on the trail, and solo travelers searching for inspiration.
As much as I tried to lasso that calf all those years ago, it escaped—not unlike how we all try to wrangle love or direction in our lives, only to come up empty-handed sometimes. But those moments leave a mark. The mountains do that to you. The winds carve their lessons into the sandstone, and you carry those lessons with you for miles, sometimes years, until one day, you find yourself sharing them in your writing, or in my case, as unsolicited advice to friends navigating Tinder dates.
From Trail Dust to Pages: How I Found My Voice
After high school, I packed up my boots (and my overinflated romantic ideals) for Colorado State University, where I studied History. I figured if I couldn’t live in the past century, I might as well study it. I found a strange joy in unearthing old diaries and records—stories of love, struggle, and endurance. And somewhere between cataloging a list of 19th-century mining town tragedies and trying to talk myself out of texting an ex at 2 a.m., I learned that people aren’t all that different across the ages. Love has always been messy.
Later, during grad school at the University of Virginia—where I traded the Rockies for sprawling Virginia landscapes—I dug deeper into storytelling. I geeked out on Willa Cather and tried my hand at short fiction. What I noticed was a common thread in every story I gravitated toward: connection. One way or another, it was in the stories of the frontier, in the quiet pull of nature, in the words people whispered to each other under impossibly crooked stars.
If I’ve learned anything, it’s that relationships—romantic or not—are a lot like the lands we live on: unpredictable and worth every misstep.
Lessons From the Range: Building Connections That Last
Being a writer wasn’t a deliberate choice, not at first. I wanted to tell better stories about the foundations of relationships, whether you’re navigating the early spark of attraction or managing the deep ache of heartbreak. Call it cowboy wisdom or just surviving in a small town, but here are three big lessons I’ve learned about relationships (and life):
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Get comfortable with mud and mistakes.
Have you ever slipped in wet dirt and had it fling halfway up your back like a bad slapstick movie? That was me on our ranch as a kid. And I see the same thing play out in relationships: love is messy. It demands we wade into the unknown, lose our footing, and laugh when everything goes hilariously wrong. You’ll mess up—say the wrong thing on a date or try too hard to impress someone—but those moments make the ones that stick, stick. -
Trust the trail, even when you feel lost.
Growing up, trails were my heartbeat. Some days, they were clear, direct; on others, fallen branches and washed-out paths made them almost impossible to navigate. Relationships can feel like that too. Sometimes you’re completely in sync with someone, finishing their sentences. Other days, you’re out of step, wondering if this is the right trail at all. Trust the process. Each misstep or detour teaches you where not to step next time. That clarity is priceless. -
Celebrate the view—and the valleys, too.
In Colorado, there’s a phenomenon I call “trail blindness.” You hike for hours, head down, watching where you step, and suddenly someone shouts behind you: “Look up!” When you do, you realize you’re surrounded by the most awe-inspiring peaks and valleys you’ve ever seen. Love can feel like that. We get so caught up in the grind—fighting over text messages, wondering if they’ll call back—that we miss the beauty of the moment. Every connection, no matter how brief, is worth pausing for. Even the ones that pulled your heart out of your chest.
Why This Work?
So, why did I choose this path—the path of writing, of reflecting on relationships, of uncovering the weirdly universal truths behind something as mysterious as love? Because it feels real. Authentic. Like the dirt under my boots after a hike.
It’s also because I’ve stood on both sides of the metaphoric canyon. I’ve been the guy who tried too hard—overthinking texts, rehearsing one-liners for the perfect moment (shameless nod to my own early romantic career), and I’ve also been the guy staring out at the Rockies after a breakup, realizing there’s no map for this stuff. You have to live through it, piece by piece, moment by moment.
And somewhere, in the wild middle of it all, I want people to remember they’re not alone. That their insecurities, their awkward attempts at vulnerability, their messy but meaningful stories, are all part of the grand, chaotic adventure.
Wrapping It Up
Choosing this path wasn’t just about writing stories; it was about helping others see theirs more clearly. I hope readers find their own lessons out here, where the landscape of love and life is equal parts thrilling and untamable.
No matter where you’re standing—at the start of a new flirtation, knee-deep in a tough breakup, or settled into the comfortable quiet of a lasting bond—know this: you’re doing the hard, beautiful work of living. A little mud on your boots is proof you’re on the right trail.
