I remember sitting on the front porch of my childhood home in West Virginia, cicadas buzzing in the humid air, listening to my dad tell the same story he always did when my cousins visited. It was about the time my mom dropped an entire meatloaf into the creek during a picnic, and he somehow salvaged enough of it to keep their date from being a disaster. “You make do,” he’d say, grinning as if this counted as profound advice—and, well, maybe it was.
Back then, I thought love was something adults just knew how to do—like driving stick-shift or making coffee without it tasting like burnt socks. It wasn’t until I started navigating relationships myself that I realized love is more like a half-sunken meatloaf: messy, unpredictable, but remarkably worth it if you can laugh and learn along the way. That, right there, is why I do what I do.
If you’re reading this, chances are you’ve been through your fair share of messy moments, too. Let’s talk about why connecting with others—and ourselves—is one of the most challenging, rewarding, and downright human things we’ll ever do.
Finding the Beauty in the Bumps
I never planned to write about relationships. I started my career steeped in union meetings and coal mining laws, trying to piece together the heart of my hometown’s struggles. But while navigating deadlines and a near-constant lack of funds (shoutout to ramen for being a solid, if sodium-heavy, life partner), I realized that every story I was telling boiled down to one thing: connection. Whether it was neighbors rallying around a grieving widow or a miner guiding the next generation, all those stories of grit and survival had love—romantic or otherwise—running through their veins.
Later, when I moved to Los Angeles, I found love looked different there. It wasn’t barn dances or pickup trucks but sunset dates at taco trucks and awkward yoga-in-the-park meet-cutes. Yet the core was the same—people fumbling toward each other, learning from their mistakes, and trying, desperately, to make something stick.
That’s when it hit me: I loved writing about love because it’s one thing we all screw up at some point, and no one walks away unscathed or unchanged. I’d found my pivot. Relationships are universal, but how we tackle them deserves personal nuance, and my job became helping people see theirs as they are—flaws, meatloaf moments, and all.
Coal Dust, Jazz, and the Rhythm of Relationships
Growing up in Appalachia taught me two key things: resilience and how to fake knowing the lyrics when you don’t. Relationships, too, are part melody, part improvisation. Some people think love has to look a certain way, like one of those perfectly filtered Instagram couples with matching pajamas (what is that about, anyway?). But real harmony? It’s what happens after the first notes go sideways, and you learn to create your own rhythm together.
Take my high school crush, for example. We sat on a hay bale at the county fair (because yes, clichés are real out there) and talked for hours—about nothing and everything—until I admitted I didn’t actually care for country rap. “So you’re lying for my attention?” she joked. And just like that, I learned my first rule about love: Be honest, even if it feels like you’re stepping in cow patties.
The lesson stuck. Just like jazz musicians riffing off a few off-key notes, great relationships don’t ask for perfection; they ask for presence. My stories of romance—from my novels to my articles—try to honor that, reminding us that life isn’t about hitting the high notes but sticking around to find the song.
Lessons From Maine, or How Lobstering Reminded Me of Love
When I swapped LA for Maine’s rocky coastline, I thought I’d slow down, stare at the waves, and maybe take up whittling. Instead, I ended up learning about lobsters—and how these crustaceans are basically nature’s relationship coaches. Bear with me here.
First, lobsters molt. They shed their shells to grow, and during that time, they’re vulnerable as all get-out. If they didn’t go through this awkward (and probably terrifying) process, they’d never become the gnarly kings of the underwater buffet. It’s a lesson for us, too: Growth is uncomfortable, love requires vulnerability, and yes, sometimes you feel like a soft-shelled freak waiting for the tides to settle.
Then there’s the fact that lobsters mate for life … kind of. They’ll shack up when the time is right, but only if the lobster bachelorette makes the first move by knocking on the bachelor’s hole (cue middle school giggles). There’s a balance of choice, timing, and messy communication, and guess what? All of that applies to us, too. Who knew lobsters were hopeless romantics?
Why We Need to Keep Showing Up
When I was a kid, we’d sit at my grandmother’s kitchen table cracking black walnuts. It was tedious work, but the reward—a dish of sticky, buttered walnut scones—was worth it every single time. Love works the same way. You put in the time, face the scrapes and calluses, and unearth something sweet.
Is it frustrating? Sometimes. Fulfilling? Absolutely.
There’s no “one path” to a great relationship, just like there’s no quick way to crack a walnut or win a pig at the fair (okay, maybe that’s just me). But I’ve made it my mission to remind people that the path they’re on has value—because, honestly, before I started writing about this stuff, I needed that reminder myself.
We’re all bumbling through this world, trying to figure out what love looks like for us. I write about relationships not because I’ve perfected them but precisely because I haven’t. Turns out, the beauty is in trying—in molting, in jazz solos gone awry, in pulling the meatloaf from the creek.
What I Hope You’ll Take Away
If you’ve made it this far, thank you. Truly. Here’s what I want you to remember: whether you're daydreaming about your future partner or working to strengthen the bond you already have, the process matters. Love, at its best, is about learning—about each other, about yourself, and about how to deal with whatever comes your way (even if it’s not meatloaf-sized).
So keep showing up. Keep trying. Keep being you—even the vulnerable, molting, out-of-tune version.
Because sometimes the best connections are built not in the grand moments but in the small ones: the porch-conversations-turned-life-lessons, the hay bales at the county fair, or the evenings spent learning to laugh, love, and try again. And, if all else fails, there’s always buttered walnut scones. You’ve got this.
