When I tell people I left the world of cataloging Santa Fe’s finest painters to write about dating and relationships, they squint at me, puzzled, as if I just traded in a Georgia O’Keeffe original for a DIY paint-by-numbers kit. “Really?” they ask, drawing out the word like it’s wrapped in bubble wrap. “What made you do that?”
It’s not a totally unfair response. After all, writing about relationships might not seem like an obvious next step for someone raised among kinetic sculptures and piñon-scented galleries. But if you press me on it, the connection runs deep. Community, self-expression, shared stories—that’s the foundation of both art and love. At their best, they’re hopeful, a little messy, and achingly human.
So, if you’ll allow me, pull up a chair (maybe a handcrafted pine one; I grew up in Santa Fe, after all), and let me explain how I landed on this path, and why it really—honestly—isn’t as strange as it sounds.
The Canvas of Connection
Let’s start here: people. I grew up surrounded by them—artists juggling palettes, collectors with emotional stories attached to every purchase, and visitors seeing their reflections in forest-green landscapes hanging on the gallery walls. Every interaction was a tiny masterpiece of trust and vulnerability. Each relationship mattered, whether it lasted the length of a wide-eyed conversation or stretched across decades.
Love, like art, isn’t one-size-fits-all. Just as every artist in my parents’ gallery found their own medium—be it oil painting, clay, or some avant-garde mix of the two—people approach relationships in endlessly unique ways. Passionate and tempestuous, subtle and harmonious, fleeting or undeniably enduring. And you can’t rush any of it. Lord knows you can’t rush a sculptor smoothing out the details of a marble bust, and you certainly can’t rush a person figuring out the shape of their heart.
Growing up, I watched as my parents lovingly curated their gallery—not just the art itself but the relationships that sprang up around it. Love needs curation too. It’s about tending to the details, managing expectations, and always leaving space for surprise. There are no guarantees in love or art; there’s only your willingness to show up, take risks, and yes, maybe end up with paint (or heartache) on your hands.
Love, Lessons, and the Great New Mexican Landscape
Growing up in New Mexico gave me more than just an appetite for green chile. It taught me that the best way to understand anything—be it someone’s love language or the meaning behind an abstract painting—is to stop, look closely, and listen patiently. It’s the kind of place where the sunsets burst across the horizon like fireworks, but you have to stand still long enough to watch the colors peak and fade.
Relationships need that same pause. Sometimes, we’re so consumed with rushing toward “What’s next?”—the title, the ring, or even just the next text message—that we forget to live in the current brushstroke. It’s in those quiet moments, the comfortable silences on a long drive through the desert or the shared laughter over a mildly disastrous date-night dinner, where meaning tends to emerge.
On a personal note, I’ve experienced my fair share of tumbleweed moments in love. Like the time I thought someone snubbing a romantic adobe shopping stroll meant we weren’t meant for each other (it didn’t); or when I tried too hard to be someone else’s idea of “cool” instead of showing up as my awkward, artsy self (spoiler alert: didn’t work). But each awkward detour shaped me into who I am today. It turns out every failed relationship—or even just an ill-fated date—is like tossing another log into the kiva fireplace of self-awareness.
Storytelling: The Secret Ingredient
My background as a storyteller also plays no small part in why I chose this path.
Writing and relationships are both acts of creative collaboration. When I write a story, I start with the big themes—the broad strokes. Where’s the tension? What are the stakes? How do these characters evolve together? Love is no different. Whether it’s a first-date flutter or the kind of soul-deep bond that keeps two people walking side by side for decades, there’s always a story unfolding.
The best relationships don’t require you to edit yourself away. Like the rugged mesas of New Mexico, the imperfections—unexpected curves, jagged edges—are part of the beauty. Learning to embrace real, messy love is harder than crafting the perfect narrative arc. It’s also more rewarding. You can write, revise, or workshop your prose into something polished, but trust me, you’re never going to “perfect” a relationship. And honestly, why would you want to?
There’s an old saying in art: “Nothing worth keeping comes easy.” I’d argue the same holds true with love. Art and romance share an ineffable quality—the ability to make you see the world a little differently, to feel deeply, to connect to something bigger than yourself. And isn’t that the ultimate goal of both? They demand that you try, fail, laugh, cry, and learn. It’s worth every muddy brushstroke or awkwardly honest heart-to-heart.
So, Why This Path?
Because I believe we all deserve relationships as vibrant, storied, and unapologetically personal as a gallery full of art. I believe in approaching love with curiosity instead of fear, authenticity instead of pretense, and patience instead of perfectionism. I write about relationships because love has been endlessly fascinating to me since the first time I saw my mom negotiate a commission with an artist, both parties smiling as though the deal had opened a door neither knew existed before that moment.
I also write about it to remind people that their quirks, scars, and tangled paths to self-awareness are not flaws—they’re part of what makes them worth loving. Whether I’m describing the wild wonder of falling for someone new or the steady, enduring warmth of a long-term partnership, my goal is to capture the same raw truth I saw in those Southern desert skies: beauty unfiltered, beauty undefined.
Your Journey, Your Masterpiece
At the end of the day, choosing this path was about human connection. I’ve traded stories over gallery openings and dinner tables. I’ve wandered through ghost towns with new friends, trading theories about life, love, and everything in between. I’ve watched how art and relationships both allow people to embrace vulnerability—to say, “Here I am. Will you meet me in this moment?”
If you’ve ever felt adrift in your love life, please know this: you are not a broken vase to be glued back together. You’re a work in progress, an ever-evolving masterpiece. So don’t succumb to the false pressures of Instagram-perfect romance or Netflix-worthy meet-cutes. Instead, let your relationships unfold like the sky over Santa Fe—layer by layer, both beautiful and grounded.
And when it comes to love, forget smooth sailing. A little wind kicking up the desert dirt never hurt anyone. In the long run, those messy moments might be the ones you remember most fondly.
