By the time I was twelve, I was thoroughly convinced that Kennebunkport was either the most romantic place on earth—or the loneliest, depending on the season. Summer brought a tide of tourists sipping blueberry soda and declaring the lobster rolls “life-changing.” But come winter, that tide ebbed, taking with it the bustling energy and leaving behind a quiet stillness, broken only by the mournful sound of foghorns and my teenage dreams of escaping somewhere glitzy, like Manhattan or, at the very least, Portland.
It wasn’t until years later—after studying English literature at Bowdoin, spending a year in England pretending I understood cricket, and dipping my toes into big city life—that I realized Kennebunkport hadn’t just shaped me. It had made me. And if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to tell you why. Because somewhere between the lobster traps and weathered shingles of that small Maine town are lessons about connection and relationships I didn’t appreciate until much later. Let’s take a stroll along Dock Square together, and maybe you’ll see what I mean.
A Town Designed for Storytelling
Kennebunkport isn’t one of those towns where you need to embellish your stories to make them interesting. It does the work for you. There’s a sense of history in every crack of the wooden docks and in every creak of an old sea captain’s house, like the one I grew up in. My family had a fondness for storytelling, often using dinner as a makeshift stage. My dad might retell the legend of the ghost ship spotted off Cape Porpoise, while my mom detailed the origins of the saltbox architecture we’d passed that morning. This deep connection to narrative didn’t just inspire me—it gave me a framework for understanding relationships.
Here’s the thing about storytelling: it’s not just about what you’re saying. It’s how you say it. This is why relationships, whether romantic or platonic, need a shared "storyline." You can’t just jump into the conflict or twist ending—you’ve gotta lay a foundation of trust and shared experiences first. Otherwise, the whole thing feels more confusing than trying to explain to an out-of-towner where the Dock Square parking lot is.
Long Winters and the Art of Patience
Let me paint you a picture of winter in Kennebunkport: the streets are empty, the wind feels like it’s trying to exfoliate your face off, and every local business has turned their sign to “Closed for the Season.” For a teenager, that kind of isolation is agony. You can’t just escape to the mall or a movie theater; you sit with yourself. For hours. Days, even.
Those winters taught me patience—and not always in a “here’s your reward” kind of way. Sometimes, patience is just staring out at the icy Atlantic and learning to be okay with waiting. You learn to appreciate the stillness and find joy in the small things: the flicker of a fire, the sound of a creaky floorboard, the unmistakable smell of a fresh-baked whoopie pie cooling on the counter.
Relationships have their “winter seasons” too. There will be stretches of quiet, when the spark doesn’t feel crackling and you’re left wondering, are we okay? But good relationships, like these Maine winters, can hold steady through the stillness. There’s beauty in learning to just be together—making peace with the lulls.
Lighthouse Lessons for Love
If summers were for picnics and exploring the tidal pools at Goose Rocks Beach, they were also for lighthouses. I grew up taking for granted how many of them dotted the Maine coast, their bright beams warding off disaster. They weren’t flashy or attention-seeking. They didn’t shout, “LOOK AT ME,” the way Times Square might. But they were real, reliable, and steadfast—the unsung heroes of maritime life.
Honestly, that’s my ideal relationship metaphor. Too often, we’re told love should feel like fireworks or the final act of a rom-com. But most of life isn’t spent in a crescendo. It’s spent in the everyday moments—the ones where lighthouses quietly shine. When I reflect on love, I think “steady” is underrated. Give me someone who shows up every day, through fog and storms, and I’ll take that over “swept off my feet” any day. And yes, that sounds wildly unsexy, but I promise, consistency plus effort is how you keep the magic alive.
Lobster Love Rules
It’s impossible to talk about Kennebunkport without mentioning lobsters. And trust me, those crustaceans aren’t just menu mainstays—they’re paragons of relationship wisdom. Have you ever watched how a lobster grows? It outgrows its hard shell, gets vulnerable for a bit, and constructs a new one to better suit its current size.
People go through the same thing. I can count on both hands the number of times I’ve shed a shell in my romantic life: after a first breakup, after moving cross-country for that partner who did not turn out to be the one, or even when learning to let someone see me without the “perfect” filter of confidence. Growth requires vulnerability. And while that phase feels about as fun as holding a live lobster, it’s non-negotiable for a lasting, vibrant connection.
A Conclusion as Sweet as Blueberry Pie
Kennebunkport isn’t flawless. It’s tight-knit enough that everyone knows your business. There’s not always much to “do.” And those summer crowds? Let’s just say there are limits to how much patience a person can have when someone asks, for the 15th time that day, where’s the nearest Dunkin?
But this little seaside town gave me the tools to navigate love with authenticity and a sense of humor. It taught me to value shared stories, appreciate the lulls, and seek partners who shine like lighthouses. And honestly, it doesn’t just stop at finding love for someone else—it’s about finding love for yourself too.
So here’s my advice: find the place that made you—whether it’s an actual spot on the map or a metaphorical kind of home. Find where your stories come from, where your patience was tested, and where you first learned to see the beacon piercing your foggy nights. And let that place remind you who you are every once in a while. You’ll need that reminder when the seas inevitably get rough.
Just don’t forget to pack a jacket—and maybe a whoopie pie for the road. Maine winters are no joke.
