The Place That Made Me

Boulder, Colorado: where kombucha flows as freely as the snowmelt and “mountain casual” is not just a dress code but a whole way of life. This is the place that shaped me, cracked me open like the sunflower seeds we used to snack on during family hikes, and taught me more about love and connection than any relationship book ever could. I didn’t just grow up in Boulder—I grew into it. And looking back, it’s clear that the city’s quirks and charms played an outsized role in not only who I am but also how I navigate relationships.

Boulder Beginnings: Love in a Town that Swipes Left on Conformity

In Boulder, there’s a saying: “The odds are good, but the goods are odd.” This might sound like an insult, but to us locals, it’s a badge of honor. Boulder is a magnet for people who don’t quite fit the mold—and that’s a good thing. My parents, for example, met at a protest rally at Chautauqua Park. My mom was holding a hand-painted sign about protecting old-growth forests. My dad, a lanky grad student in Birkenstocks, was handing out hand-pressed flyers next to her. They bonded over shared ideals—and deep skepticism of deodorant. Twenty-five years later, they’re still together.

Growing up in such a fiercely individualistic environment taught me early on that authenticity matters. It’s the kindling to any sustainable fire, whether you’re talking about saving a forest or building a relationship. And in a town where first dates often involve hiking at elevation (if they involve shoes at all), there’s little room for pretense. What matters is who you are when you're winded and sweaty, not how cute your profile photos are.

The Flatirons Litmus Test: Lessons from the Trail

Boulderites like to joke that the Flatirons make the perfect third wheel. Every date gravitates toward the trailhead eventually. Some relationships can survive the shared trauma of scrambling over boulders; others crumble faster than an energy bar at the summit.

When I was 16, I brought a girl—let’s call her Sierra—to Royal Arch Trail for what I thought would be the beginning of forever. Things started well. She had a quick wit and a smile that could stop traffic on Pearl Street. But halfway up the steep switchbacks, she turned to me and hissed, “How much farther is this stupid rock thing?” That was when I learned two important lessons: 1) Always check if your date actually likes hiking before suggesting a five-mile trek, and 2) Shared passions are essential—it’s hard to fake enthusiasm when you’re sweating through your socks.

The Flatirons turned out to be a surprisingly accurate compatibility tester. I carry that litmus test into my relationships to this day: Can you find joy in life's climbs? Can you laugh when the wind picks up and your hair looks like a Ferngully character met a tornado? Boulder taught me that love isn’t built in perfect conditions—it’s built in the messy, unfiltered in-between moments, like that time my girlfriend and I got caught in a thunderstorm on Green Mountain and ended up sprinting downhill, laughing so hard we missed the turnoff to the parking lot.

Farmers Markets and First Impressions: On Connection and Kale

Another Boulder institution that shaped me is our farmer’s market. I know, it sounds cliché: a love story born among mason jars of honey and suspiciously overpriced arugula. But hear me out. The farmer’s market is where the city's social life and soul collide. It’s also ground zero for accidentally running into people you’ve ghosted; Boulder is, after all, a small town with a big ego.

I’ll never forget the summer I tried to flirt with a kombucha vendor while simultaneously dodging a classmate who I knew had a crush on me. The whole thing felt like a rom-com montage—if that rom-com were directed by Wes Anderson and heavily featured gluten-free tamales.

But the market also taught me something invaluable about relationships: connection is about showing up. You have to put yourself out there, even if the stakes feel high. Maybe the kale guy won't text you back, but isn’t it worth learning how to strike up a conversation with someone who makes you feel something? Whether it’s the butterflies or just a craving for fermented tea?

Beanies, Breakups, and Being Kind to Yourself

Of course, not all of Boulder’s lessons are light-hearted. This town also taught me how to get through a breakup—because when you’re surrounded by breathtaking views and endorphin-fueled runners, it’s hard to wallow for long. I learned this the hard way during a particularly brutal post-grad breakup. I’d been ghosted, which, ironically, in Boulder is what we call “pulling a disappearing act faster than a fog bank at Eldorado Canyon.”

I took to the trails like a cliché straight out of an REI catalog, hoping nature could posture as my therapist. One day, sitting on a rock overlooking Boulder Canyon, it hit me: Sometimes relationships fail, not because you’re flawed or unworthy, but simply because not every story is meant to reach the summit. Whether it’s a romantic partner who isn’t able to match your pace or an idea of “forever” that doesn’t quite fit into the contours of your life, it's okay to let go.

And while it may sound ridiculous, there’s something healing about yelling your frustrations into the wind at 7,000 feet. If Boulder's good at anything, it’s making you feel small in the best way possible.

The Takeaway: Roots and Wings

Boulder is a paradox: a tiny mountain town held up by towering ideals. But its biggest influence on my relationships isn't just its quirks or breathtaking backdrops—it’s the way it taught me to balance groundedness with exploration. A relationship is like a hike: The destination can be stunning, but it’s the journey that shapes you.

For me, authenticity has always been Boulder’s biggest lesson. Don’t pretend to be someone you’re not. (Especially on a date—everyone sees through it faster than an Aspen snowstorm melts in July.) The most meaningful connections happen when you’re unshowered, winded, and just a little bit vulnerable.

So, whether you’ve found your "place" or are still searching for it, remember this: Your roots will always matter. They’ll shape how you love, how you connect, and how you weather the storms. But equally important? Your wings—the courage to stretch beyond, to share your rawest self, and to keep hiking, even when the trail gets steep.

And if dating has taught me anything, it’s this: Always pack snacks.