The Place That Made Me
The Front Porch of Montgomery
I grew up on a creaky old porch overlooking a pecan tree that was always dropping gifts—both sweet and hazardous. When I think about the place that shaped me, it’s easy to picture that peeling white paint, the sound of cicadas tuning up every summer evening, and my mom hollering, “We’re burnin’ daylight!” as she handed me a broom to clear those endless pecans. That patch of Southern soil taught me everything I know about love, resilience, and the importance of finding your voice—even if you have to yell over some rowdy cicadas to make your point.
Back then, I didn’t know that years later, I’d be writing articles about relationships for a living or teaching students how to unravel the messy truths of history. I just knew that Montgomery—the city where Dr. King made history and where your neighbors bring casseroles for everything from births to breakups—had as much to teach me about connection as it did about conflict. And like a good book, a life-changing city never stops handing you lessons.
Lesson 1: Montgomery Taught Me to Find Beauty in Complexity
Growing up in a city like Montgomery is like dating someone who looks great in their profile pics, but their bio screams “it’s complicated.” Montgomery’s history is layered, often uncomfortable, and steeped in contradictions. It’s the birthplace of both civil rights progress and some of this country’s darkest chapters. It’s humid as all get out, yet somehow things still bloom here—azaleas, oak trees, and maybe even hope if you’re patient enough.
This complexity shaped the way I approach relationships. For instance, learning to embrace someone's quirks is a lot like understanding Montgomery’s charm. The mismatched brick streets and stubborn humidity taught me not to judge too quickly. (Reminder: The ick you feel during a first-date awkward silence might be hiding something sweeter, like my family’s backyard pecans after you crack the shell.) The beauty is often buried just under the surface.
Relationships, like cities, are messy. No one is all good or all bad—we’re all struggling and growing. So honor the imperfections. You don’t ignore history, but you don’t live in the past either. This mindset can help you embrace the eccentricities of your partner (or yourself) while staying open to grace and growth.
Lesson 2: The Power of Storytelling
My parents—both teachers—were Southern storytellers through and through. There’s an intersection near the church I grew up in where my dad always narrated the same story: “See this corner? This is where my granddaddy traded his mule for a tractor.” Did I care about random agrarian bartering at age nine? Not really. But my dad told that anecdote with such drama, you’d think Spielberg was scouting locations for his next blockbuster.
That’s Montgomery for you. It’s a city where stories are currency. That emphasis on storytelling has taught me to dig beneath the surface when I meet someone new. Everyone’s got a story that explains why they love what they love, fear what they fear, or hold onto that one odd quirk (you know, like needing Spotify playlists for every mood).
When you’re lucky enough to hear someone’s story, lean in. Whether you’re on a first date, catching up with a friend, or braving conversations with family over Thanksgiving dinner, good storytelling connects us. Ask questions. Follow up with curiosity. A good story will keep you coming back—just like that Montgomery porch keeps pulling me home.
Lesson 3: Hospitality is a Love Language
If Montgomery wrote a dating guidebook, Chapter One would be titled “Food Fixes Everything.” There’s no better excuse to linger than a pot of something warm on the stove. Growing up, my parents didn’t just offer plates—they offered time, patience, and unspoken reassurance that we had a space to be heard. Every relationship I cherish now—romantic or otherwise—grew out of the same principle: hospitality.
Hospitality isn’t about napkin rings or having the perfect charcuterie board. It’s about tending to the moments between big milestones—the times when a shared meal, cup of coffee, or long walk can quietly nurture connection. My mom’s buttery homemade biscuits (which should have a statue in their honor) taught me that love shows up in practical ways, like folding someone’s laundry, filling their gas tank, or simply listening without offering solutions.
No, a skillet of cornbread won’t solve all your relationship problems (though it doesn’t hurt), but the spirit behind it—the willingness to say, “I made this for you because you matter to me”—is exactly the kind of thoughtfulness that strengthens bonds.
Lesson 4: The Pecan Principle
And then, of course, there’s the pecan tree. That ridiculous tree, constantly two steps ahead of me, taught me patience. If you’ve ever tried to gather pecans after a storm, you’ll know what I mean: there’s no rushing it. If you pluck one too early, it’s bitter. But if you wait—if you let nature take its course—you’ll have something worth savoring.
It’s a metaphor that could apply to almost anything, but here’s where I’ve found it most useful: in relationships, there are no shortcuts. The good stuff—the real stuff—takes time. There’s no rushing through those awkward early stages of figuring someone out. No blazing past disagreements without actually resolving them. Like those pecans, relationships are bitter if you crack them too soon. But when timing is right, and you’re willing to put the work in? That’s when something beautiful happens.
Lesson 5: Lessons from Goodbyes
Montgomery isn’t the only place that’s shaped me. There was Tuscaloosa during grad school, with its sticky-floored dive bars and endless papers to write. Then Auburn’s rolling hills and long, sleepless nights cramming for finals. Each place has its chapter in my story, and if there’s one universal truth, it’s that parting from a place (or person) is bittersweet every time.
Here’s what Montgomery taught me about goodbyes: they aren’t necessarily endings. They’re more like semi-colons, leading into the next part of your story. I’ve left places, outgrown relationships, and said farewell to friendships that no longer served me. And yes, it stings. But moving forward doesn’t erase what came before. Those experiences stay with you, a part of who you are.
Goodbyes, like that old pecan tree, offer gifts if you look for them. They remind us to treasure what we’ve had while making room for what’s next.
The Takeaway: Build Your Own Front Porch
What Montgomery gave me wasn’t a framework built on perfection but one rooted in authenticity. If you’re lucky, home is the place that teaches you how to stand still long enough to listen, love, and grow. And when home gets complicated (as it often does), it props you up with lessons in resilience and compassion.
Whether you’re building a relationship or reflecting on where you came from, the same advice stands: show up, embrace the mess, and put in the work to make it home. Every great love story—whether shared with a person, a place, or most importantly, yourself—starts with room to welcome its quirks, complexities, and quiet beauty.
So, here’s your challenge: Build your front porch, wherever you are. Fill it with the people and moments that remind you to pause, to laugh, to savor. And on the days when the world feels too big, too loud, or just plain confusing, remember there’s wisdom in the smallest corners—like a pecan tree, a buttered biscuit, or the crackly sound of cicadas.
