Have you ever tried explaining your career path at a family reunion? Imagine standing with a plate of your Aunt Carolyn’s macaroni salad, trying to convey to a room full of engineers, nurses, and public school teachers that you get paid to write about love. It’s a surefire recipe for side-eyes and probing questions like, “Okay, but what do you really do?” For me, however, writing about relationships isn’t some abstract calling—it’s how I make sense of the world and, honestly, how the world has shaped me.

As someone who grew up navigating intersections—the kind of intersections that don’t crash cars but identities—I learned that connection isn’t just important, it’s survival. And while I don’t claim to know all the answers (spoiler alert: nobody does), my journey to this work is grounded in something very simple: a desire to help people feel seen and less alone.

Let’s break it down.

A Love Story (But Not How You Think)

My passion for love and relationships started with the most unlikely muse: my neighborhood growing up in Beaumont, Texas. Picture this—a row of shotgun houses, the faint smoky smell of barbecue in the air, and the constant hum of porch gossip acting like a communal reality show. It was there I first became fascinated by relationships, even if I didn’t have the language for it yet.

From my awkward teenage years as a closeted Black kid trying to navigate crushes at a Baptist church youth group to overhearing my parents’ hushed marital disputes late at night, I saw early on that love is one of the most complicated, messy—yet beautiful—forces we’ll ever experience. And I mean messy as in clothes-strewn-on-the-floor messy, not rom-com “oops we kissed under the mistletoe” messy.

As the peacemaker in my family, I often involuntarily credited myself with figuring people out. Why did my cousin keep going back to that no-good boyfriend? Why did love so often look like forgiveness—a practice my father mastered, while my mother approached it with guarded precision? I wasn’t just interested in the answers for them; I was curious because I couldn’t make sense of my own heart.

From a Classroom to the Page

Fast-forward to my time as a high school teacher in Houston, where I had the unique privilege of mentoring students who were figuring out their own identities. Let me tell you, high school kids have a way of humbling you. They’ll ask the hard-hitting questions adults buried somewhere between their first heartbreak and a Netflix binge.

“Mr. Prince, how do you know when someone likes you for real?”
“Why does love hurt if it’s supposed to feel good?”
“Can you get over someone or is that just a TikTok lie?”

Whew. While their questions felt as impossible to tackle as a 5,000-piece jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces, those conversations were pivotal. That’s when I realized: Connection isn’t just about romance or attraction. It’s about understanding yourself and your needs—and knowing that both are worthy. Love advice wasn’t about telling people what to do; it was about giving them the tools to explore that for themselves.

This opened a door within me. My essays about my own experiences—growing up queer and Black, wrestling with societal expectations of masculinity, and redefining how I saw partnership—picked up steam online. Comments started pouring in: "This sounds like me," “My mother and I fought about this same thing,” “Thanks for putting into words what I couldn’t.”

That’s the power of storytelling. It bridges what often feels unbridgeable—like how to explain to your uncle at Thanksgiving that you could write a dissertation on Beyonce’s Lemonade but can’t fix his Wi-Fi.

Why Relationships Matter (Even When They Suck)

Let’s be real: Nobody chooses this career because they’ve always had perfect relationships. I didn’t show up to this column as some self-proclaimed dating guru who’s never misread a text or cried over the wrong person in a Waffle House parking lot. My credibility comes from the opposite—I’ve absolutely been that person.

I used to think love would magically solve all my problems. Maybe you know the drill—“If I could just find The One, then my insecurities about showing up authentically would disappear.” Spoiler alert: Nope. You still have to do the inner work, boo.

There were years where I stayed in relationships because I thought being chosen was more important than choosing myself. I relied on surface-level chemistry (“We both like ‘90s R&B; this must be a soul mate vibe”) instead of actually aligning values. It wasn’t so much that I was unlucky in love; it was more that I treated love like some shiny prize I had to earn instead of a shared experience where both parties needed to show up.

Writing about relationships taught me that no one dodges the emotional debris of heartbreak or miscommunication. What separates people isn’t the struggles they face; it’s how they learn to interpret and grow from them. Better yet, it’s about how we bring others along with us in our growth without losing ourselves.

Lessons from the Page and Beyond

So why did I choose this path? The answer is twofold: first, selfishly, because writing about relationships was therapeutic for me. And second, because I believe in making others feel brave enough to ask hard questions about love—and how they participate in it.

Let me leave you with some things I’ve learned the messy, BBQ-end-of-family-reunion way:

  • Love is brave, not perfect. You’re going to mess up. You’re going to say the wrong thing. You’re also going to wake up one morning, look at your partner, and realize they chose you despite all the small ways you feel unworthy. That’s bravery—showing up anyway.

  • Build the house before you add the décor. (Yes, this is a HGTV metaphor.) If the foundation isn’t secure—trust, shared vision for the future, mutual respect—it doesn’t matter how pretty things look from the outside. Paint chips, but a solid house stays standing.

  • You don’t need permission to build your own rules. Love doesn’t always come in the package we expect. Whether you’re discovering nontraditional dynamics, redefining what partnership looks like post-divorce, or finding acceptance as an adult within your chosen family: it’s valid because it’s yours.

The Close

Ultimately, I believe in the beauty of connection—not the filtered, #BoyfriendGoals kind but the real, raw work it takes to be in any kind of intimate relationship. Writing about love lets me say the things I wish someone had taken the time to say to me all those years ago. It’s a privilege and a joy to do it.

So, the next time someone at the family reunion asks me why I chose to write about relationships, I’ll smile (and maybe grab another spoonful of macaroni salad) and say, “Because love is the one conversation I never get tired of.”