Four years ago, I sat at my kitchen table, sipping a too-hot cup of chamomile tea and staring at my laptop like it had just insulted my taste in music. The cursor blinked back at me—mocking, relentless, almost alive. Outside, the sunset painted the sagebrush and red mesas in a watercolor wash of pinks and purples, and yet, I couldn’t enjoy it. Why? Because I was convinced I had just been assigned the impossible: writing about my parents’ love story for a local magazine’s Valentine’s Day issue.

Now, let me clarify: this wasn’t your average meet-cute situation. My parents’ love story varied somewhere between a magical realist novel and a sitcom plotline about entrepreneurs in over their heads. Sure, I’d told their tales over countless dinners—how my mom, a sculptor fresh out of college, met my dad at a sun-drenched art fair, where he was selling pottery with lopsided handles (he still insists those mugs were “intentional”).

But telling a story casually, with room for embellishments and a glass of wine in hand, is one thing. Committing it to 1,500 coherent, evocative, publishable words? That’s another beast entirely. Along the way, I learned some hard truths—not just about writing, but about relationships, creativity, and the weird ways they overlap.

So, let me walk you through it—and maybe sneak in some advice you can use in your own life, too.

Step 1: The Perils of Romanticizing Reality

Here’s the thing about writing a love story when you know all the messy bits: it’s complicated. There are no montage sequences set to soft indie music, no convenient fade-to-black. My parents first met on a windy spring morning, and when my dad sheepishly asked to walk my mom to her car, her response was, “If you can carry this giant clay bust, sure.” (The bust in question was her eccentric homage to Frida Kahlo, complete with ornate hair braids.)

This was not the meet-cute I had hoped for. I mean, I lived on a steady diet of Nora Ephron movies throughout my teenage years, convinced that true romance involved bookstore banter or dramatic airport reunions. Watching my parents, though, I realized that real-life love isn’t cinematic—it’s full of heavy lifting (both metaphorical and literal), miscommunications, and unexpected support when you’re carrying something ridiculous.

Takeaway: Trying to force your story—or your relationship—into a Pinterest-perfect version of itself will only exhaust you. Reject perfection; find beauty in the uneven edges. Besides, nobody remembers the meet-cute as much as they cherish the meet-real.

Step 2: Shaping the Narrative (But Staying Honest)

Every writer will tell you that the hardest part is deciding what to leave out. (Well, that and actually starting.) You’d think this piece would write itself considering how charming my dad’s terrible jokes are, or how magical it must have felt to decorate their newlywedded living space with handmade art instead of IKEA furniture.

But behind the charm were tougher truths. Like how they spent their first year married in a tiny adobe casita with frigid winters they couldn’t afford to properly heat. Or how they had to sell some of their original artwork just to make rent. Or the way my mom once got so frustrated with my dad’s creative “procrastination” that she hurled a ball of clay at his head and missed by what he still claims was “barely an inch.”

At first, I wanted to gloss over that part, to only paint them as the plucky artists conquering the odds. Then I realized: those moments—the arguments, the compromises, the fear of rejection (both personal and professional)—were not roadblocks to their love story; they were the love story. Scratch the surface of any long-term bond, and you’ll find an underpainting of vulnerability. It’s not always Instagram-ready, but it’s real.

Takeaway: In relationships, as in writing, honesty beats polished fabrication every time. When you edit out the rough spots, you lose the richness of your truth.

Step 3: Turning Criticism into Collaboration

Here’s the curveball I didn’t see coming when I signed up to write this article: my parents wanted to fact-check it. “We just want to make sure it’s accurate,” Mom had said over the phone. “And by accurate,” Dad chimed in, “she means I don’t sound like a total doofus.”

That week, I spent countless hours on speakerphone listening to debates over the location of their first official date (he swears it was a little diner off Cerrillos Road; she insists it was a local food truck that served green chile enchiladas). My attempts to include dialogue? Vetoed. (“I never said that,” Dad corrected. “Sure you did,” Mom replied. “It was 30 years ago, Sylvia. Even your memory isn’t that good.”)

Though frustrating at the time, this back-and-forth taught me something invaluable about partnership: collaboration is messy, humbling, and sometimes absurd—but it’s also the glue that holds everything together. Watching them work through disagreements reminded me that love isn’t about always seeing eye-to-eye; it’s about approaching conflict with curiosity rather than defensiveness.

Takeaway: Whether you’re writing, dating, or just trying to co-exist, learn to value another person’s perspective. Collaboration is growth. (Also, never skip proofreading. Seriously.)

Step 4: Letting Go of Control

The final stage of writing their story? Anxiety-fueled overthinking. I worried about everything: Would people find their tale compelling? Was the tone too syrupy? Not romantic enough? Should I have clarified that mushroom mugs can have artistic merit?

But when I handed in the draft and saw how proud my parents looked while reading it—oh, I wanted to cry. They framed a copy and hung it near the gallery entrance. And as customers stopped to admire the accompanying exhibit, asking them questions about their intertwining journeys of art and love, I realized something crucial: the story had become bigger than me. Letting go allowed it to live.

I guess that’s true in relationships, too. You can plan and edit and analyze, but sometimes you just have to release control, let the other person in, and see where the next chapter takes you.

Takeaway: Release the stranglehold on your expectations—whether in love or life—and be open to an outcome you might not anticipate but could turn out even better.

The Hard-Won Rewards of Hard Work

If there’s anything I now understand about love—or writing—it’s that the easy parts aren’t what make it meaningful. Meaning comes from the tangled mess: the rewrites (literal and metaphorical), the misunderstandings patched by laughter, the patience it takes to get everything just right when it feels like nothing ever will.

To this day, I consider that article the hardest piece I’ve ever written. But it also taught me to embrace the struggle. Sometimes, the works of art, writing, or relationships that seem impossible are the ones that leave the deepest impression.

So, whether you’re crafting a story or creating a life with someone, lean into the mess. Embrace the awkward silences, the detours, the mound of dishes waiting in the sink because you spent the evening deep in conversation. Trust me—it’s worth it.

And if you learn anything from this reflection, let it be this: even lopsided pottery deserves a place on the shelf.