There’s a running joke among friends that when I talk about home, I’m really talking about a personality trait. For me, Montana isn’t just the place I’m from; it’s the filter through which I see the world. Can’t decide between two options? Flip a coin like you’re about to call the river in a Texas Hold’em tournament. Need relationship advice? Picture two people moving fences together—they’d better be in sync, or someone’s about to lose a finger. Montana teaches you to see life plainly, without the Instagram sparkle or flowery metaphors. But underneath all that grit, there’s beauty in the simplicity. It’s the same kind of stark beauty I’ve come to appreciate in relationships. And that’s the exact lesson Montana gave me.

Let me take you to where it all began: a 200-acre plot just outside Bozeman, pressed so snugly against the mountains you’d swear they were leaning in to eavesdrop. It was a ranch, dusty and sprawling, where life moved at the pace of Monana wildlife documentaries—slow, deliberate, and never without purpose. While some kids grew up learning to parallel park in their parents’ driveways, I learned how to bottle-feed a calf and argue with a three-year-old mare I’d affectionately named Echo, though she had zero interest in reflecting much of anything I said. This patch of earth, with its stubborn horses and endless, horizon-stretching skies, built me from the ground up. And while it’s not swiping left or right, it’s funny how much it taught me about love, connection, and how to find your footing when the terrain gets rough.

Playing the Long Game, Montana-Style

Here’s the first thing Montana hammered into me: you don’t rush anything worth having. Out on the ranch, patience isn’t just a courtesy; it’s a survival skill. Building trust with a horse, like building a relationship, isn’t something you blitz through. Try to fast-track either one, and you’re likely to end up bucked off or ghosted (figuratively or literally; horses are surprisingly stealthy when they’re mad at you).

I once spent three months coaxing Echo—a spirited little spitfire of a horse—into accepting a saddle. She’d eye me like I was asking her to solve math equations, her skeptical glare making it clear that I was on her timeline, not mine. And you know what? She was right. Rushing only led to more resistance. With time, patience, and a healthy amount of bribery (spoiler alert: horses love carrots like I love takeout sushi), we finally found our rhythm.

The lesson? Whether you’re breaking in a horse or nurturing a budding relationship, patience and consistency are your best tools. Make the other party feel safe. Show up daily with kindness and intention—and for heaven’s sake, don’t try to force the timeline. True connection isn’t interested in your agenda.

Embrace the Awkward Weather (and the Awkward Moments)

Montana weather has a sense of humor. A June morning might offer sunshine so warm and golden you’ll feel obligated to write poetry, only to slap you with a hailstorm around lunchtime so bizarre you’ll think you’ve time-traveled to January. And you can’t argue with it—it just is. That unpredictable, occasionally frustrating reality? Turns out, it’s a perfect metaphor for dating.

There was this guy I went out with once—a real accountant-by-day, adventure-photographer-by-weekend type. Our lives overlapped once or twice in college, so when he asked me out for coffee, I thought, why not? Midway through the conversation, I realized the topic had somehow skewed towards his in-depth knowledge of engine mounts (don’t ask me how; I don’t have the range to understand). At first, I panicked internally. Is this date a bust? Should I fake a bathroom emergency and escape? But instead of bolting, I decided to lean into the weird weather of the moment. I listened, nodded, and even asked a follow-up question—bless my poor self for trying. By the end of the date, we’d found a rhythm. Did it lead to anything? No. But did I leave feeling more confident in my ability to weather the unexpected? Absolutely.

Not every date—or every conversation—has to be a rom-com worthy montage. Sometimes, a little awkwardness is good for the soul. Roll with it, learn from it, and maybe even laugh about it later. You’ll survive, I promise.

The Importance of Messy Hands and Dirty Work

Growing up on a ranch, there are two things you learn quickly: how to fix a fence (spoiler alert: always carry extra wire) and how to tell when chores are done well versus just done quickly. It usually involves ending the day with muddy hands and dirt under your nails, a far cry from the polished, effortless vibe we sometimes aim for in modern relationships.

The truth is, relationships are messy. They require maintenance, troubleshooting, and the occasional deep clean. You can’t just slap up a shiny highlight reel and call it a day—there’s real work involved. I remember those ranch summers when we’d have to reset old fence posts during triple-digit heat, sweat soaking through every thread of my faded T-shirt. Was it fun? Absolutely not. But it was necessary. Those boundaries weren’t just about keeping the horses in—they were about protecting everything inside the space that mattered.

Think of relationships the same way. They’re not polished Instagram corners of your life; they’re those intricately tangled stretches of fence that require effort, investment, and teamwork. Do the work. Make sure the foundation is solid. Build something that stands up to the storms. And yes, you’ll probably get a little mud on your boots (and your heart) along the way.

Find Your Anchor Point

The wide-open spaces in Montana are both a blessing and a challenge. There’s nothing quite as freeing as galloping across an endless expanse of countryside with nothing to block your way. At the same time, all that openness can leave you feeling untethered. One of the best lessons I learned growing up here was the importance of an anchor point—something to ground you so you don’t get lost in the vastness.

For me, my anchor point has always been authenticity. Whether navigating the peaks and valleys of a new relationship or simply getting to know myself better, staying true to who I am and what I value has kept me steady.

What’s your anchor point? Maybe it’s honesty. Maybe it’s humor. Maybe it’s showing up on time for the fifth date (a true rarity these days). Whatever it is, hold onto it like a compass. It’ll carry you through uncertainty.

Conclusion: Love, Montana Style

If growing up in Montana taught me anything, it’s that love—like life—is equal parts grit and grace. It’s the patience of taking time to break in a saddle or build trust. It’s the humor of surviving awkward weather and moments that don’t make sense at the time. It’s the honesty of knowing when to get mud on your hands and do the hard work. And most importantly, it’s learning to find your anchor point and hold onto it when the horizon seems endless.

So, whether you’re navigating the early stages of a spark or repairing the boundaries of a well-loved connection, remember this: the West isn’t won overnight, and neither is the wild, complicated, beautiful terrain of love. Go slow. Be patient. And never stop showing up—for yourself and the people who matter.

After all, if a stubborn horse like Echo can learn to trust, maybe there’s hope for the rest of us.