There’s a saying that the land shapes the people, and nowhere does that feel truer to me than in the sandy expanse of the Navajo Nation. My childhood home was not just a place; it was an ethos, a geography of lessons, and—let's be honest—a masterclass in patience. After all, learning to drive on dirt roads surrounded by horizonless vistas will teach you a thing or two about taking life one mile at a time. But even more than its vast skies or its rugged terrain, this place taught me how to connect—not just with people, but with myself. It’s where I first learned that love, like the land, doesn’t have to be perfect to be extraordinary.

The Land that Speaks in Metaphors

Growing up between adobe walls and sagebrush fields, I quickly realized life here was a series of metaphors wearing leather boots. The way the desert stretches endlessly, like an awkwardly long first date, teaches you that sometimes the pauses hold more value than the words. And let’s not even get started on monsoon season—a sudden burst of intensity in an otherwise steady rhythm. Sound familiar? Because it’s basically every early-stage relationship, where one moment you’re sipping coffee politely, and the next, you’re sharing secrets about your childhood trauma.

But beyond the poetic musings, the land taught me practicality. Power outages were routine, cell signals unreliable. You learned to adapt, to be inventive. Romance was less about grand gestures (what’s the point when the nearest flower shop is 100 miles away?) and more about pointed actions that mattered—a handwoven blanket on a cold evening, an elder’s teachings about enduring through hardship. Love here wasn’t flashy; it was rooted.

To this day, I carry that ethos. In dating, when someone cancels a dinner reservation and ends up ordering tacos on the floor with you, I don’t see that as a fail—I see it as real. The desert has no airs; why should love?

The Sacred Art of Slowing Down

There was a time when I thought ambition meant speed—wrapping things up quickly, progressing faster than everyone else. But the land taught me to unlink productivity from purpose. Unlike a city where the buildings reach upward with urgency, here, everything grows at its own pace. Even the stubborn juniper trees take their sweet time, twisting toward the sunlight.

I often think about those trees when modern dating feels like a race, with people collecting matches like Pokémons on a speed-run. I used to be guilty of this too, eager to prove I could win at love. You know, two dates in, you’re already planning joint vacations, three dates in, you’re imagining how their bedside table would look in your apartment. But that’s not how love works—and it’s definitely not what the land taught me.

Connection doesn’t happen when you’re rushing. Growing up, we didn’t have the convenience of Amazon Prime or instant solutions. If I wanted to talk to my friend across the mesa, I had to walk there (or at least yell really loudly). These experiences instilled patience, a sense of presence. In dating, it reminds me to appreciate what’s right in front of me instead of jumping to what it could be.

Here’s a little exercise for when a date feels like it’s dragging: think of it as watching the sunset. Sure, you could check the time to see how long it’ll last, or—stick with me—you could actually enjoy the moment as it unfolds. Trust me, sunsets—and dates—are better experienced in real time.

Flirting with Nature: Lessons in Imperfection

Nature is a pretty great flirt if you think about it. The desert doesn’t try to impress you with lush greenery or postcard-perfect beaches. Instead, it leans into what it has—reddish cliffs, sun-kissed mesas, and shadows that dance like whispers across the canyon walls. Flirting, my friends, is all about playing to your unique strengths, not pretending to be Malibu Barbie.

Funny enough, my teenage crushes often mirrored the environment. You’d better believe I once wrote poetry about an unassuming classmate simply because his hair was the same color as the sand dunes near Monument Valley. While my Middle School Canyon Chronicles may not belong in a museum, they taught me this: embrace the beauty of your differences.

When someone asks me for advice on being memorable in romantic settings, I always go back to this lesson. Stop watering yourself down to fit an ideal. Are you weird, awkward, or prone to making pop culture references at inappropriate times? Double down on it. Lean into that quirk like a cactus showing off its spines—it might surprise you who finds themselves drawn in.

Relationships Don’t Have Roadmaps, Either

If there’s one universal truth to dating and living in the Navajo Nation, it’s that nothing ever goes exactly as planned. A “quick” visit to a nearby town could easily turn into a multi-hour detour, thanks to surprise road closures (or “helping a neighbor wrangle their sheep” scenarios). This unpredictability used to drive me nuts. Over time, though, I learned to adapt, to embrace the curves in the metaphorical road. And that adaptability? It’s become a guiding principle in my love life.

Let’s talk about relationships for a second. We all have some dreamy, Pinterest-board version of how they’re “supposed” to look: romantic vacations, effortless communication, coordinated holiday pajamas à la Hallmark movies. Spoiler: That’s nonsense. Sometimes love looks like missing the turnoff but laughing about it anyway. Sometimes it looks like disagreeing on whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie but respecting their wrong opinion regardless. The only “roadmap” relationships actually need? A hefty dose of humor and a willingness to reroute together.

Take Root, but Never Stop Wandering

One of my favorite things about the Navajo worldview is the idea of balance—of moving through life in harmony with what surrounds you. That sense of connection, though anchored in the desert, is also about curiosity. You’re encouraged to explore the world, to incorporate experiences from far-off places, and then come back home with new perspectives.

Dating offers the same opportunity. Every new person you meet expands your horizons, even if the relationship doesn’t last. When I finally left home to live in cities far from the desert, I carried that habit of slow observation, that openness to learn. Sure, some dates were disasters (never trust someone who won’t share fries), but even those mismatched encounters added texture to my life.

Just like the juniper trees that twist toward the sun, we grow toward connection. We learn from each relationship, each fleeting moment. Whether you’re deeply rooted in your hometown or wandering a new city in search of love, it all adds something to the story.

If there’s one thing the land taught me, it’s that love isn’t about rushing to the finish line or searching for glossy perfection.It’s about growing slowly, finding beauty in flawed edges, and embracing unexpected swings in the weather. Every place—and every person—holds lessons if we’re willing to pause and listen.

So go out there. Take a deep breath. Laugh at the awkward silences, celebrate the quirks, and let yourself be shaped by the places and people you encounter. After all, love is less about the destination and more about the journey—and, trust me, the view is always better when you’re paying attention.