What Lights My Fire: Reflections on Love, Life, and Lessons from Coal Country

The Story is in the Coal Dust

When you grow up in rural West Virginia, amidst coal mines and winding mountain roads, you learn quickly: nothing worthwhile comes easy. My parents worked harder before breakfast than many folks do in a week, and their grit laid the foundation for what I stand for today. In dating, relationships, and everything in between, that Appalachian work ethic comes with me—the belief that love, like life, is something you roll up your sleeves for.

But let me tell you: the mountains don’t just teach you hard work; they also teach you storytelling. Every coal miner has a tale (or six) about life underground, some of it fact, a lot of it embellishment. My mother could weave a yarn about her garden tomatoes that would make you think she was smuggling rubies in vine form. So, here’s the truth: my core beliefs are stitched together in those same storytelling traditions, balancing grit with imagination. Because when it comes to love and life, you need both.

Love Ain’t a Fast Food Order

Let’s clear the air: our swipe-right culture loves a quick fix. We’ve become the drive-thru customers of love, ordering a “loyal but adventurous partner, with a side of shared Spotify taste.” But love? Real, lasting love? It looks a lot less like instant gratification and more like one of my dad’s old coal shifts—long, messy, unpredictable, and worth it when you finally see the light.

See, I believe relationships shouldn’t be about who checks off the most boxes. They’re about getting messy together—figuring out if your quirks complement their quirks (or at least don’t send them running). Like the time I tried to impress a girl by making homemade pierogis—it was a flour-dusted disaster, complete with strategically placed smoke alarm beeping. But guess what? We laughed. She teased me for weeks, and somehow, it brought us closer. Moments like that—the unpolished, real ones—are where connection blooms.

Here’s what I stand for: stop looking for perfection. Trade it for connection. Scratch off your checklist and ride the chaos of someone else’s imperfections for a while. They might just mirror your own.

Keep It Honest, Keep It Real

My dad used to say, “Don’t tell someone you’re a mountain lion if you’re really a housecat.” (Translation: Be who you are, not who you think folks want you to be.) That wisdom holds up whether you’re sitting at a dive bar or having the dreaded “define the relationship” talk over text. Authenticity matters.

Being honest about who you are and what you want isn’t just the fair thing to do—it’s also the smart thing. I’ve seen folks tie themselves into knots trying to present the “perfect” version of themselves only to end up exhausted, hurt, or ghosted because, surprise, the mask didn’t hold.

For me, authenticity means two things:

  1. Lay the Groundwork Early: Look, it’s tempting to pretend you’ve got it all figured out. But if you're on a date and they ask about your “five-year plan,” it’s okay to admit you’re still working on that whole “next week plan.” Vulnerability isn’t weakness; it’s an act of bravery.

  2. Know Your Non-Starters: Back in my West Virginia days, I knew a guy who wouldn’t date anyone who didn’t like cornbread. That might sound silly, but he was a proud baker who saw bread as sacred. (We all have our things.) The point is: know your values. Whether it’s cornbread or clear communication, standing by your dealbreakers and needs saves you both time and heartache.

Commitment is Sexy

A friend once told me, “Commitment is like climbing a mountain—exhausting and rewarding, but the view’s always worth it.” That friend then got altitude sickness halfway up a hike, but the metaphor stuck with me anyway.

Commitment doesn’t have to be scary; it can be thrilling. But here’s the catch: I don’t just mean commitment in relationships—I mean a commitment to growing into the best version of yourself. It’s easy to focus on what your partner brings to the table, but what about what you’re building together?

When I first moved to Los Angeles for grad school, I dated someone who, like me, had left behind a simpler life for city chaos. We bonded over books and long midnight drives. But I couldn’t fully commit—not to her, but to myself, to the life I was building out there. And sure enough, things unraveled. That breakup taught me something that feels truer each day: to thrive in any relationship, you have to commit to doing the work—on yourself, on the bond, on the life you hope to share.

Lessons from the Holler (and Hollywood)

Now, being a kid from coal country living in LA for six years was its own education in love. In West Virginia, courting was often simple—talk at church, catch a movie at the drive-in, maybe share a Coke after peeling hay off your clothes. LA? Picture swanky wine bars where everyone is an aspiring something. Conversations are punctuated by “Did I mention my screenplay?” and “My yoga instructor says…”

The biggest lesson I learned switching between those two worlds? Context matters. Every relationship—whether it starts on a foggy mountain trail or in the corner booth of a fancy cocktail lounge—has its own ecosystem. The trick is understanding the unspoken culture of the connection you’re building. It’s a little Appalachian folklore meets Hollywood storytelling: you have to pay attention to where the tale begins, so you know where it’s headed.

Love is a Campfire

If you boil it down (or maybe roast it down), love is like a campfire—a throwback to evenings in the holler when my family would gather under a sky so full of stars it felt like they could tumble right into your lap. A good fire requires three things: dry wood, patience, and a watchful eye.

  1. Dry Wood (Foundation): Build on strong basics—kindness and respect. Without those, nothing lights.

  2. Patience: Fires don’t roar instantly, and neither does love. If you’re looking for fireworks every night, there’ll be plenty of soggy evenings.

  3. A Watchful Eye: Protect what you’re building. That means tending to your partner’s feelings, your shared rituals, and your own emotional health. You can’t let it blaze too hot, but you can’t let it burn out, either.

Campfires need care; relationships need investment. Simple as that.

Here’s What I Know

So, what do I stand for? I stand for honesty, effort, and stories. I believe in putting in real work to build love worth keeping. I believe it’s worth the risk to bare your weirdest truths to someone and say, “This is me—are you staying?” And I believe love is, at its core, about the stories we craft together: the bumbling pierogi nights, the shared playlists, the quiet moments when words aren’t needed.

The coal miners in my family used to come home from their shifts, caked in soot, sharing tales of some small triumph—a narrow escape, a funny moment deep underground, a tool no one believed would work but did. No matter how hard their day, they celebrated what went right.

That’s love. Celebrating what goes right. Holding each other close through the messy middle. And believing that, with care and patience, you can always kindle something worth keeping.