Let’s rewind for a second: I’m ten years old, sitting at the dinner table in our modest East Austin house, attempting to eat spaghetti while my dad launches into one of his famous speeches about justice. “Fairness,” he’d say, pointing his fork at me like he was addressing the Supreme Court, “is something you fight for every single day. It doesn’t just show up with balloons and a cake.” Meanwhile, my mom would chime in with something equally profound like, “And sometimes fairness just needs to be baked, Harper.” Because in her world, most problems could be solved with a batch of homemade oatmeal cookies.

Fast forward a couple of decades, and here I am, writing nonprofit grant proposals, promoting arts education, and assembling my thoughts on love and relationships late into the night for all of you. Maybe it looks like a disjointed collage of “life choices,” but to me, it’s all threads from the same cloth: trying to make connections that matter. Between communities. Between people. And hey, even between partners on this complicated rollercoaster ride called love.

So, why did I choose this path—the messy world of connectivity, meaning, and relationships? Grab a coffee (or a spicy marg), and let me explain.

Section 1: Love, Austin, and the Art of Listening While Chewing

I blame Austin. Growing up here was like being raised in a town-wide group project. There's this grassroots energy that flows through every corner: artists creating in garage studios, activists filling coffee shops with heated debates about affordable housing, neighbors swapping tools like a citywide lending library. In a place like this, you can’t help but learn that everyone’s story matters.

And my parents drilled that truth home daily. My dad had this heavy moral compass, the kind you could probably use to find True North—or at least the nearest protest. My mom, on the other hand, was the queen of connection, a master at listening while letting me lick the cookie dough off her spoon during heart-to-hearts. She taught me that people show up better when they feel seen, understood, and supported.

So, yeah, long before I ever cared about meet-cutes or understanding why texting “lol” signals emotional unavailability in modern dating parlance, I cared about connection. Whether it was my best friend crying in the back of geometry class over her cheating boyfriend (ugh, Jared) or the local grocer slipping canned green beans into my mom’s bag “just because,” relationships always seemed like the glue holding life together.

Section 2: On Messiness and Meaning

Let’s be clear: I didn’t go chasing some starry-eyed belief that I could save the world overnight. Life is messy. People are messier. And relationships, well, they’re like trying to assemble IKEA furniture without the instructions—some frustration, some laughter, and probably a leftover Allen wrench that leaves you scratching your head.

But it’s that messiness that makes it meaningful. My American Studies degree taught me that culture, identity, and connection are layered and beautiful—like a stack of pancakes, but with way more syrup spills. And working in nonprofits showed me that while systems can feel impersonal, it’s the individual stories that transform them. One student in our art program with the courage to paint her truth could shift an entire community’s perception.

That same dynamic happens in love and relationships. It’s not about perfect, curated Instagram posts, but the tiny, unfiltered moments. Like when your partner spontaneously makes you laugh so hard you forget the looming pile of laundry. Or when, despite a fight over whose “turn” it is to clean the dishes (is it ever really just one person’s turn?), you both stay because you’re building something worth the mess.

Section 3: Lessons From Love (and Failure)

Speaking of love—it took some bad dates, great books, and introspective mornings with coffee and the occasional existential crisis to shape my perspective. And before you ask, yes, my dating life has hit every predictable cliché. I’ve swooned over the musician who swore he’d “figure out his life next year.” I’ve eaten overpriced tapas across from a guy who spent the entire evening mansplaining how kombucha is brewed. And I’ve had long-distance relationships that revolved around FaceTime and faith, only to fizzle out in awkward video silence.

But hey, let’s normalize that failures are teachers, not enemies. They tell us what we value, what we don’t, and what we’re genuinely capable of tolerating in someone else. For me, it was realizing I value emotional transparency more than grand gestures. That vulnerability trumps charm, every time. And that a partner shouldn’t just laugh at your jokes—they should help you write better ones together.

Section 4: Truth Is, It’s All About Building Bridges

When people write about any topic—dating, relationships, social equity—it’s tempting to play “expert.” But honestly? I don’t have it all figured out. Nobody does. That’s kind of the point. Writing isn’t about pretending I’ve unlocked some secret; it’s about building a bridge to connect us over shared experience.

Whether it’s nonprofit work or relationships, “success” hinges on the same three truths:
1. Listen more than you speak: Hold space for others to show up authentically—whether it’s your students or your soulmate.
2. Know your non-negotiables: Just like grassroots causes need mission statements, relationships need boundaries. What are the hills you’re willing to die on versus the ones you’re willing to garden?
3. Celebrate the small moments: Advocacy, romance, life—they’re all marathons, not sprints. Joy doesn’t just arrive at the finish line. It lives in the mile markers along the way.

I’ve found more connection than I could ever articulate simply by being willing to lean into these truths—the first nervous kiss, collaborating on a larger-than-life mural for an underserved school, or even hashing out a breakup over tacos that felt like both closure and rebirth. Every step matters, even the wobbly ones.

Conclusion: Why I Stay the Course

So, why did I choose this path? Because at the end of the day, my ten-year-old self sitting at that spaghetti-splattered dinner table was onto something. Fairness, empathy, and connection are worth fighting for—and sometimes baking for, though my Texas-sized oven failures could make my mom roll her eyes.

Whether it’s through fostering love in relationships, creating avenues for self-expression in underserved communities, or writing articles like this, it’s all the same mission: to remind people that their stories matter. That they matter.

And maybe it’s cheesy, but I love the idea that each of us is just trying to piece together a messy, profound IKEA-built version of love and life. It’s imperfect, sure, but when you step back, it might just be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever helped create.