Where I come from, the landscape has a way of shaping your soul. Northern Arizona isn’t just where I grew up—it’s where I became. Imagine endless stretches of red rock cliffs under a cobalt sky, the smell of sagebrush after a sudden desert rain, and the humbling silence of the sand-rich winds that tell stories if you listen long enough. This was my world—a place as vast and uncompromising as love itself and just as unpredictable.

I grew up in a multi-generational Navajo household on the reservation, and let me tell you: it was built for connection. Love here wasn’t spoken loudly or parade-like. It was a hand gently resting on your shoulder when words weren’t needed, a pot of stew left simmering for whoever wandered in late, a quilt shared under the stars. That’s what shaped how I view relationships—quiet, enduring, and as rooted as the juniper growing out of impossible rock formations.

So, when I moved to Vermont for college, it was like taking my heart to a foreign planet—one with rolling hills, covered bridges, and maple syrup for every occasion. But Vermont didn’t call to me the way the desert did, even as I learned to navigate new spaces, new people, and new ways of being. The place that made me stayed firmly in my mind, reminding me that love—real love—wasn’t all about being swept away. Sometimes, it’s the grounding. Sometimes, it’s home.

STEP 1: KNOW YOUR ROOTS

There’s an old Navajo belief: wherever you are, you carry pieces of where you started. My pieces will always smell like piñon wood smoke, conjure the rhythmic rise and fall of our songs sung at dusk, and move whisper-quiet like shadows of the mesas at sunrise. Because of that, I brought the quiet strength of my home into everything, including my relationships.

So here’s my first piece of advice: don’t forget the place that made you. The things that shaped you—be it a bustling city, a small town with a one-blinking-light intersection, or a childhood spent knee-deep in public library aisles—aren't just quirks of your past. They’re the foundation of who you are. They remind you of what you need, especially in love.

Big city? You probably crave excitement or constant motion in your connections. Grew up with fireflies and backyard treehouses? You might value slower, smaller moments. Know your roots—embrace them. They’ll make sense of your don’ts: I don’t want someone who ghosts me for weeks and your dos: I do need someone who shows up for family dinners.

STEP 2: THE ENVIRONMENTAL REPORT

Okay, so confession time: I once compared the dating scene in Portland, Oregon, to a roomful of DIY kombucha kits. Interesting? Sure. Everyone’s got personality? You bet. But there’s also an undercurrent of chaos that no one admits to out loud. The brew can spoil, let’s just say that.

Portland was new terrain, culturally very opposite from the steady rhythm of how I grew up. Instead of subtle, persistent gestures of affection, I stumbled into a whirlwind of high-energy declarations (“I’m in it for the polyamory AND the social justice protests. Are you?”), sushi dates in dive bars, and more texts beginning with “sub-eyyyyy” than my desert-raised heart could handle.

It taught me to read the room—or, in this case, the environment—for the dating dynamics at play. And guess what? You should, too.

Ask yourself these questions: What’s the general vibe of the people around you? Are they chasing careers, pursuing adventures, or settling into routines? Do you fit into that, or are you swimming upstream? The dynamics of your environment influence everything—including who shows up on your romantic radar.

STEP 3: DON’T OUTGROW—GROW WITH

Let’s get real. You can love your hometown while also leaning into the itchy, messy growth that happens when you leave it. For me, leaving the reservation was both exhilarating and terrifying. Not because I didn’t want to spread my wings, but because I was afraid I’d forget where I came from—or worse, that whoever I met wouldn’t understand why it mattered.

But the truth? You don’t outgrow a place like the one that made you. You take it with you. It’s not baggage; it’s roots—and if someone loves you in all your messy-tender glory, they’ll understand that. They’ll love your roots, even if they don’t totally “get” them.

Real intimacy? It’s when someone lets you plant little pieces of “home” in your shared life together. It’s when they buy you sage bundles because you miss the smell of Grandma’s house or tolerate your entire midnight monologue on why the desert stars just hit differently.

STEP 4: FINDING BALANCE

Now, let’s talk balance—because we all know relationships can feel like a teetering game of Jenga. You give a little; you take a little. But here’s what my landscape taught me: you have to honor both the wild beauty and the stillness.

The red deserts of Arizona have this magnetism. To me, they’ve always been the backdrop for commitment. Why? Because they hold contradictions—the soft whisper of sandstorms and their occasional sharp sting, the vast openness paired with tough, rugged tenacity. They remind me that relationships, like stone formations, are built through patience and time. Also? Not every day will be an Insta-worthy sunset moment. Sometimes, it’s just the steadfast glow of beating the Arizona heat.

Whether in the whirlwind of Portland or back home in Arizona, I found I needed someone who could embody both: passion and persistence, grandeur and grounding. If they couldn’t walk beside me when the waters got rough—or the desert too dry—they weren’t my people. Ask yourself this: who balances your wild and your calm?

STEP 5: THE ENCOURAGEMENT THAT TRAVELS

True love is like living in two geographies. There’s the world you once knew—the one that shaped you and stays alive in your memories. Then there’s the new world you stumble into—a little unstable, a lot exciting. Build your relationships the same way. Let their foundation honor your past while exploring the unfamiliar.

The place that made me reminds me that love isn’t a grand, sweeping romantic saga—though I’ve watched The Notebook enough times to appreciate the drama. It’s a series of deliberate choices. Knowing where you belong, and trusting that the person standing beside you supports that—even when the sands shift.

And maybe—just maybe—you’ll find someone whose roots blend beautifully with yours, creating something uniquely yours. Kind of like a love note written across red rock canyons, lasting long after the ink dries.

So, here’s to the places, the landscapes, and the homes that shape us. Never forget them, bring pieces of them with you, and let them serve as the blueprint for building everything else—including the relationships worth keeping.