The Place That Made Me

It starts with a winding road, a speckle of red clay dust clinging to your boots, and the faint but persistent hum of cicadas in the summer heat. That’s where I come from—a quiet slice of West Virginia coal country where time moves slower, people greet you with a nod from the front porch, and love is the kind that digs deep and stays put. And while my hometown isn’t exactly the type of place to show up in glossy magazines or romantic travel blogs, it’s the place that shaped everything I know about relationships, for better and for… well, let’s call it “growth opportunities.”

I didn’t always appreciate where I’m from—not when I was younger, anyway. It seemed like everyone was either marrying the person they met at the Dairy Queen or trying to outrun the black lung that had gotten their daddy. But as I got older, I started to see how much of myself, and even my approach to love, was rooted in those hills. Those long nights sitting under sky-wide stars taught me how to listen. The heartbreaks, whispered through screen doors and backyard fences, showed me resilience. And the way people stuck together, fought for each other, and mourned what was lost taught me that love isn’t just a spark. It’s a long burn.

Small Town, Big Lessons

Growing up in a town where everyone knows your name sounds romantic until you realize that also means they know how much you tip at the diner and who you’re sneaking around with after church. Privacy wasn’t a luxury; it was a mirage. If you went on one date, Aunt Linda down the block knew about it before you could say, “check, please.”

But while small-town life didn’t allow for secrets, it did create accountability. Relationships were built less on games and more on showing up. You couldn’t ghost someone when you were bound to see them at the feed store a week later. You learned to face sticky situations head-on. I still remember my first breakup—Jayne Miller, who smelled like lilacs and wore her eyeliner heavy. When we called it quits, half the town knew before she even walked me out to the porch.

What I didn’t realize then was that this culture of transparency wasn’t a burden but a gift. I learned early on that honesty is the backbone of any relationship worth having. Somebody who’s willing to be vulnerable enough to level with you—whether it’s about their feelings or that embarrassing high school yearbook quote—deserves the same in return.

Lesson #1: If you can’t be honest with yourself or your partner, you’re not building something real. Be upfront. Own your quirks, the awkwardness, the not-so-perfect sides of yourself. Pretending otherwise is like mining your own coal seam—it might look secure for a while, but eventually, it’s gonna collapse.

The Language of Love (and Country Stores)

Where I grew up, romance wasn’t about grand gestures. There were no rooftop dinners or diamond earrings just for the sake of it. There was, however, a rhythm to the way people showed love. You might not hear “I love you” every day, but you’d find your gas tank filled or dinner waiting on the stove when you came home from the mines. Romance was practical, and in retrospect, strangely poetic.

When my buddy Mike finally worked up the courage to propose to his girlfriend, it wasn’t over candlelight or during a weekend getaway in some Instagram-perfect cabin. It was near the cigarette rack at Dixon’s General Store, between picking up a loaf of Wonder Bread and some Prince Albert tobacco for his dad. And you know what? She said yes. Because their love wasn’t about flowers or flash; it was about shared history and trust.

I’ve carried that belief into every relationship I’ve had—though I’ll admit I’ve traded the general store for cafés and bookstores these days. The truth is, love doesn’t have to come with dashing heroics. It’s in the small, deliberate actions that say, “I’ve got you.” It’s packing an extra coat in case they’re cold. Noticing when they’ve had a tough week and suggesting their favorite takeout.

Lesson #2: Show love the way you’d want to feel love—tangibly, unmistakably, and consistently. Big romantic gestures are nice, but it’s the daily acts of care that build bridges you can walk across for years.

Escaping the “Perfect Match” Myth

When I left West Virginia for Los Angeles—a decision fueled by equal parts ambition and the need to shake off the dust of familiarity—I discovered something surprising: where I came from still defined me, even in the sprawl of the big city. The people in LA were beautiful; they wore sunglasses indoors and talked astrology over green smoothies. But what they seemed to lack, more often than not, was a sense of roots.

More than once, a date would ask me where I saw myself in five years, and my answer—“Hopefully somewhere outdoorsy, with a dog and someone who doesn’t mind my bad cooking”—would be met with raised eyebrows, as if I’d just suggested living on the moon. They wanted futures polished like resume pages; I wanted something messy. Something real.

Real love isn’t about chasing some mythical “perfect match” who miraculously checks all your boxes. I’ve seen cool, beautiful people divorce six months after a dream wedding and chain-smoking couples hold hands for fifty years because they never stopped showing up for each other. Compatibility matters, sure. But it’s the willingness to stay, to communicate, to laugh when the world gets heavy—that’s where relationships thrive.

Lesson #3: Don’t get caught up in perfect images or idealized notions of love. Nobody’s perfect, and you’ll drive yourself nuts trying to conform to a fantasy. Look for someone whose imperfections feel like home—not work to fix.

Roots, Wings, and What They Taught Me

Now that I’m living on the coast of Maine, another place defined by its rhythm and rules, I see echoes of home everywhere. From couples arguing about lobster traps to neighbors loaning each other firewood, it’s familiar in a way I hadn’t expected. It reminds me of the unspoken truths I picked up along the way:

  • Don’t rush love. My parents didn’t have a whirlwind romance—they had a partnership that was steady, messy, and built to last. Thirty years later, my dad still looks at my mom the way you’d look at a fire on a freezing night: like he needs her warmth to keep going.
  • Know when to stay; know when to walk away. Love isn’t meant to clip your wings, nor should it uproot your sense of self. The best pairings enrich you. If you find yourself shrinking or suffocating, consider what you’re holding onto and why.
  • Take the lessons with you. Every heartache, every awkward date or debate over whose turn it is to do the dishes—they’re all threads weaving the tapestry of who you are. Let them.

The place that made me didn’t just teach me how to love. It taught me that love, real love, is messy and holy. It’s tied to the land that raised you. It’s shaped by long nights and lessons you wish you could have skipped but are better for learning anyway.

Wherever you find yourself, whether you’re still in your “hometown romance” era or have traded small-town quiet for coastal breezes or city lights—remember that love is built, not bought. Show up. Get your hands a little dirty. And don’t be afraid to plant your heart where it has room to grow.