Every so often, when I’m wrestling with a problem—whether it’s sorting out a miscommunication with a friend or dissecting why the date that seemed so promising fizzled—I find myself mentally walking along the La Jolla shoreline. It’s my always-on-call therapist, my clarity compass, and the place that made me.
La Jolla isn’t just where I grew up; it’s where I became. Its tidepools, trails, and sunlit salty air didn’t just nudge me toward nature nerd-dom—they taught me the power of patience, perspective, and paying attention. Turns out, those same lessons have been surprisingly handy in navigating relationships, too.
Let me take you on a little tour of the La Jolla that built me. Along the way, you might just find a new way to think about your own growth, love life, or even the shadowy landmine that is asking someone, “What are we?”
The Tidepool Lessons: Learning to Look (Really Look)
Picture this: your 10-year-old self crouched by a jagged shoreline, staring intently into a puddle of water no bigger than a yoga mat. That was me, completely lost in the universe of tidepools while my classmates on the field trip scampered off to “accidentally” splash each other.
A tidepool is chaotic if you don’t know where to look—layers of life stacked on top of each other like New York apartments. I’d spend hours head-down with my mom, who always razored through my impatient questions with one phrase: “Soft eyes, Julianne.”
She meant to stop forcing it, to keep my gaze wide enough to notice the subtleties. It was only then that I could see the sand-colored crab shimmying sideways or the translucent shrimp, hiding in plain sight.
When it comes to relationships, I think we’re all a little guilty of tunnel vision. How often do we seek out drama instead of understanding the nuances? Ever fixated on someone’s missed text without seeing their other ways of showing they care? Learning to pause, notice the details, and use those figurative “soft eyes” has helped me uncover truths I’d have otherwise missed—the quiet emotional depth, the affection tucked away in actions over words.
Takeaway from the tidepools? Don’t focus so hard on finding the perfect sea star that you overlook the quieter beauty of a scuttling hermit crab.
The Coastal Hiking Rule: Know When to Stop and Wait
On the sandstone bluffs of Torrey Pines, there are certain stretches where you’re better off halting rather than pushing forward. Ask any hiker who’s tried to scramble too quickly over loose footing—it usually ends with a face plant and a bruised ego. At some point, my dad cheerfully taught me the ‘hiker’s rule of caution.’ Sometimes, the best thing you can do is slow down and let unstable ground settle.
I think about that rule a lot when faced with rocky emotional terrain. Modern dating culture is obsessed with velocity—the quicker you “click,” the more screenshottable your inside jokes are, the better. There’s hardly any room for the thoughtful pause it takes to build something meaningful.
I’ll admit I’ve rushed my share of romances—either plowing through red flags or overanalyzing texts like I was playing some Olympic-level Sudoku of the heart. But over time, that metaphorical hiker in me has been less afraid to stop. Not every moment needs to be a “next step”; sometimes, just being present—really present—is the best step.
Remember: slowing down isn't losing ground. A healthy relationship, much like a trail, has ways of showing you when it’s time to sit, look around, and appreciate where you are.
Ebb-and-Flow Friendships: The Ocean’s Quiet Reassurance
When you grow up with the Pacific Ocean as your backyard soundtrack, you become pretty acquainted with its rhythms. The tides pull in, bringing treasure (or seaweed, if you’re unlucky). Then they pull out, leaving empty stretches of beach behind. The first few times I saw whole sections of my favorite tidepools left dry, I panicked, rushing to rescue stranded sea anemones like some badge-wearing Girl Scout of marine heroism.
What I didn’t know then but know deeply now is this: the ocean keeps its promises. The tide always comes back. And so, I came to trust its constant ebb and flow.
Not to get too metaphorical (okay, I’m totally getting metaphorical), but this little natural truth spills over beautifully into relationships. People come and go in seasons: the high school best friend who now sends ironic memes instead of emotional check-ins. The ex you swore you’d get over but who still stirs something when “your song” comes on Spotify. None of these shifts are inherently bad—they’re the quiet choreography of life ebbing and flowing.
Instead of clinging, I’ve learned to honor where the tides take me. That means saying goodbye when it’s time, sending a heartfelt “thinking of you” text when the moment strikes, and being present for the gifts the tide brings back. Trust me—trying to force every friendship or relationship to stay at its peak high tide is about as effective as arguing with the moon.
The People You Meet at the Ice Cream Stand
At La Jolla Shores, there’s this unassuming little food shack where sunburned kids and surfers line up for hand-scooped ice cream cones. It’s sticky nostalgia in waffle-cone form. Some of my favorite memories happened in that line—a chance encounter with a fellow marine biology nerd, a long-overdue laugh with an old friend I bumped into after years apart.
There’s something about people-watching with salty hair and sandy toes that brings out life’s sweeter connections. Nobody’s swiping left or filtering their selfies here. You’re just human-sized, melting ice cream dripping unapologetically onto your knuckles.
On dating or in friendships, we all need these “ice cream stand” moments—the spaces where we let-go of curated versions of ourselves. There’s power in peeling off the facade and allowing people to meet the version of you that’s playful, imperfect, and unapologetically messy.
Final Thoughts: Honor the Place That Built You
We all have a La Jolla: some corner of the world that shaped us without us even realizing. Maybe for you, it’s a bustling city skyline or a little library down the road. Wherever your “place” happens to be, lean into its lessons. What did it teach you about showing up for yourself and others? I’d bet those lessons—whether it’s noticing the hermit crabs or trusting in the tides—are still guiding you, even now.
And when all else fails? Go find an ice cream stand. Trust me, it works every time.
