There’s a stretch of road just outside of Bozeman where the world feels preposterously big. On one side, the Bridger Mountains jut into an open sky so blue it looks like a postcard you’d assume was doctored. On the other, the plains run flat and wide, the kind of space that swallows sound and can make you feel like the smallest thing alive. I grew up on that road—or at least on the ranch just off it. But it wasn’t until I left that I realized the place wasn’t just in my blood—it built the way I love.

I’ve always thought that where we grow up is like a first crush. It shapes what we chase and what we avoid, all without us noticing. For me, the lessons were tucked into the frost-crusted mornings, the endless labor of farm chores, and the wildness that always seemed just a step away from domestic life. It’s where I learned about fixing fences—and about how breaking something often isn’t the end of it. It’s where I learned about solitude, deep and achy, but also how longing isn’t always something to run from. And it’s where I learned that being both rooted and restless is a paradox you can live in.

But enough about philosophy; let’s get into the heart of it.

Love Lessons From Open Spaces

1. Shared Work Beats Grand Gestures

When you grow up on a ranch, “quality time” means hauling buckets to frozen water troughs or rolling hay bales at 6 a.m. There’s a certain romance in the mundane when it’s shared, even if it’s caked in mud.

Turns out, relationships work the same way. Movies love to glamorize sweeping declarations, but what really builds love is the daily grind of showing up: folding the laundry (without being asked), tackling the boring chore nobody wants to do, being there when the other person is fried. I’ve come to appreciate practical connection over performative love. Sure, send me flowers, but also read the room and bring me a pre-assembled Ikea shelf when life’s chaotic.

2. Solitude Is a Teacher (Not an Enemy)

When you grow up fifteen miles from your nearest friend and make a meal of counting the stars for entertainment, you learn to enjoy your own company. That’s not to say I didn’t feel lonely—but I grew up realizing loneliness wasn’t a thing to fear.

In love, that lesson has been a lifesaver. It taught me that you can want someone without needing them. Healthy relationships, I’ve found, are built on two whole people—not two halves trying to make a messy patchwork of themselves into one. I’m not saying you should skip date night to ride solo into the metaphorical mountains forever, but I will say this: date someone who doesn’t freak out when you need a night to recharge on your own.

3. Trust Is Built, Not Demanded

There was a gelding I grew up with named Whiskey, tall and impossibly ornery, who refused to cooperate unless you earned it. He had to watch you for a while, see how you moved and handled the reins. Eventually, if you proved trustworthy, he morphed into the kind of partner who’d charge through anything for you.

Dating is a lot like breaking a stubborn horse—minus the awkward cowboy hats. Trust isn’t automatic, and it’s certainly not a birthright. It’s built slowly, through consistency and honesty. Guarding someone’s secrets, showing up on time, holding steady even when things aren’t easy—it matters. These days, I don’t care how charming someone is. Charm without reliability is like bareback riding in a thunderstorm: thrilling, but guaranteed to end in disaster.

When It’s Not All Wildflowers and Sunsets

I’d be lying if I said Montana taught me nothing about heartbreak. In a place that vast, endings feel doubly cruel—they echo across the open spaces, leave scars as raw as a storm-beaten hillside. I’ll never forget the first big breakup I had, aching alone out by the barn, that stupid Coldplay song stuck on a loop in my head. (Don’t judge me; it was 2006, and melodrama was peak.) But the thing about wide-open spaces is that they remind you the horizon doesn’t stop. Life keeps going—if you let it.

A good cry is like a thunderstorm: messy, necessary, and strangely cathartic. But then, you saddle back up. Whether it’s a breakup, a missed connection, or just the daily grind of loving someone imperfect, you don’t stop. You patch up the fence, forgive the weather, and keep going. Ranch life doesn’t let you wallow too long—and honestly, neither does love.

Final Thoughts From a Montana Heart

A wise local once told me, “Montana doesn’t love you back—it just is.” I think the same could be said about love itself. It’s not about coaxing an outcome or trying to domesticate the messy wilderness of emotions. It’s about finding the beauty in the way it unfolds, wild and unpredictable.

So, here’s my Montana-approved relationship advice: embrace the messy, the hard work, the breathtaking moments that feel bigger than you. Love—and the places that teach you how to—is a little like the prairie. If you let it, it’ll crack you open, stitch you back together, and leave you better than it found you.

And if it doesn’t? Well, at least you’ll have one hell of a story to tell.