The Stories That Built Me: Lessons from My Family Around a Dinner Table

Like any good story, my family’s lore always begins in the same spot: gathered around a sticky pinewood table in a cabin with questionable heating but legendary views of Lake Tahoe. This is where I first learned that what shapes you isn’t just the big, dramatic moments in life—it’s often the half-burnt pancakes, the missed ski lifts, and the storytelling battles over who had the worst fishing luck that day. In my family, one-upping each other with lessons disguised as tall tales was our love language, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Some families pass down heirlooms of silver and pearls. Mine passed down philosophies wrapped in absurd anecdotes. Here's a glimpse into our world—and a few rules for life modeled after ideas that came with laughter, eyerolls, and occasional threats of, “If you don’t eat those Brussels sprouts, no dessert for a week.”

If You Don’t Know Where to Go, Start with the Map—and Then Ignore It

My dad was a walking contradiction: thoroughly equipped with maps and trail guides, but also somehow allergic to following instructions. His famous phrase on every hike: “We’re just going to improvise. We’ll find a better view this way.” Most of the time, this theory ended with us waist-deep in snowdrifts or trying to figure out how to safely slide down scree-covered slopes. But every now and then? He somehow landed us in sublime pockets of wilderness—the kind of breathtaking scenery that makes you forgive your current state of hypothermia.

The lesson? Plans are great. Having a direction? Even better. But relationships—and life—don’t come with mile markers. Whether it’s figuring out if you’re ready to move in with someone, or navigating why your partner insists on keeping 47 old T-shirts “because they’re sentimental,” sometimes you have to step off the trail and be okay with a little chaos.

It’s Not About the Fish, It’s About the Company (and Snacks)

Fishing trips were a Donovan family tradition, a million-dollar industry if you count the snacks we scarfed down while catching zero fish. My mom, who wasn’t much of a fisher, became the designated snack master. She’d pack smoked almonds, chocolate bars, and thermoses of hot cider, then camp out on the shore with a book while the rest of us perfected our art of “not catching anything.”

But looking back, those trips weren’t about snagging trout—they were about sitting side by side, swapping stories (and occasional accusations of whose cast scared off the fish). My sister once said fishing in our family was 90% snacks, 10% existential dread over where all the fish went.

I can’t help but think relationships are the same. The goals—whether they’re grand milestones like marriage or just surviving IKEA trips without fighting—are important, sure. But the real magic? That’s in the details: sitting quietly together, laughing over burnt marshmallows, and remembering to focus on connection instead of perfection.

Every Character Needs a Good Flaw

My Uncle Ray was a legend not because he was graceful or suave—he was neither, which he’d prove every time he tripped over his own feet at family weddings. No, Uncle Ray’s charm was that he was unapologetically himself. If he showed up late to dinner, he didn’t blame traffic—he owned it: “I got caught up watching a raccoon make some very questionable life choices.”

This man was a walking reminder that it’s not the glossy parts of us people fall in love with—it’s the quirks, the humanizing little flaws that tell a better story. Too often, we try to curate our best selves for others, editing out the messy moments. But Uncle Ray? He made me realize the mess is the best part. So go ahead, embrace the fact that you sometimes laugh-snort, or that you ugly cried during reruns of Parks and Recreation. You don’t need to star in someone else’s scripted version of “perfect.”

Everyone Needs a Lodge Keeper

Growing up in a family that ran a seasonal lodge, I was always surrounded by travelers—an endless rotation of colorful characters checking in and out of our world. My parents treated everyone the same: with patience, generosity, and a borderline magical knack for remembering names and breakfast preferences.

In hindsight, they taught me the value of being a “lodge keeper” in relationships. Showing up for people, creating safe spaces, and remembering little things like how someone takes their coffee might seem small in the moment. But trust me, the accumulation of those small kindnesses? That’s the foundation of a great love story—or friendship, for that matter.

Beware the Danger of Marshmallows in the Wild

No family story is complete without at least one cautionary tale. Ours involved what can only be called the “Great Marshmallow Incident.” I was maybe ten years old and, as children do, thought I had a bright idea: roast marshmallows on a stick that I just picked off the ground. Turns out, the stick was laced with some sappy tree resin that, when flame-kissed, turned the marshmallow into a torch from a medieval reenactment. Chaos ensued—as did a very stern conversation about preparation and listening to experienced advice.

The takeaway here is simple: in relationships, don’t wing it when you desperately need to know what you’re doing. Whether it’s prepping for important conversations or using YouTube tutorials to learn not to burn everything in the kitchen for date night—when in doubt, do your homework.

Never Skip the Campfire Stories

If there’s one universal truth I’ve learned, it’s that stories are the connective tissue of all relationships. Growing up, every night ended the same: with someone around the fireplace telling a story. Some of these were recycled family legends, others entirely fabricated nonsense about how my dad once outran a bear (spoiler alert: the “bear” was actually a raccoon). Whatever they were, they became the pulse of our family, weaving us together the way stories always do.

Why does this matter? Because the same principle applies in dating and relationships. Share your stories—even the weird, random ones that seem unimportant. What’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever cooked? What phase of life led you to believe bangs were a good idea? Your stories not only let someone know who you are—they say, “Hey, here’s the messy, vulnerable, hilarious human I’ve been—and maybe you’ll want to stick around to see the rest.”

Building Your Story, One Brussels Sprout at a Time

Family traditions can feel like strange, unconvincing fables until they sneak up on you later in life as irrefutable truths. Somewhere between the burnt marshmallows, the snowdrift detours, and the fishing trips with zero fish, I learned that life—and love—isn't about glossy Instagram moments or carefully reheated romantic gestures. It's about showing up, flaws and all. It’s about listening, laughing, and occasionally surviving bad advice with a sense of humor.

In the end, our relationships are just stories in the making. Some chapters will be messy, others transcendent. But if I’ve learned anything from my family, it’s this: the best ones are shared over sticky pinewood tables, knees bumping under blankets around a campfire, or even while spooning peanut butter out of the jar on a random weekday afternoon.

So, here’s your call to action: Share your stories. Learn others’. Burn a marshmallow or two. And most importantly? Celebrate the imperfect, chaotic, hilarious process of crafting the ones that really matter.