The Place That Made Me

It’s funny how a place can shape you. How its scent clings to your clothes, its stories settle in your bones, and its quirks quietly shape the person you become—even when you don’t realize it. For me, that place is Telluride, Colorado. A former mining town turned ski haven, Telluride taught me about resilience long before the concept found its way into glossy self-help books or motivational TikTok clips. It’s also where I learned about love—what it means to stay, and what it means to let go.

Turns out, life and relationships aren’t all that different from living in a small mountain town: both require patience, ridiculous amounts of humor, and a willingness to dig deep, even when the terrain seems impossible to navigate.

The First Lesson: Love the View (Even When It’s Complicated)

Growing up on a ranch in the San Juan Mountains, I had what most would call “a postcard childhood”: horseback rides at sunset, panoramic views that could humble even the most hardened city dweller, and a sky so clear I could practically count the stars. But if you’ve ever mucked a horse stall in sub-zero temperatures, you’ll know the postcard has some frozen manure on the back.

When it came to learning about love, the landscape became my metaphor. Relationships can be as breathtaking as the panoramic view from a summit—but they’re also full of steep climbs, unpredictable avalanches, and the occasional ill-advised detour into what you swore was an actual trail (spoiler: it wasn’t).

What Telluride taught me—and what I hope you’ll take to heart—is this: love is worth the climb. Sure, there’ll be days when the altitude gets to you, and you’re wondering why on earth you left the comfort of level ground. But oh, the view when you make it.

The takeaway? Commit to the climb, but don’t forget to pack your emotional snowshoes. A good partner will help lift you when the air starts feeling too thin.

Find Your People (and Your Rhythm)

If you’ve ever lived in a town as small as Telluride, then you’ll know this universal truth: you can’t hide from anyone. Not your ex, not your neighbor, not the guy you ghosted in favor of watching reruns of Parks and Recreation.

In Telluride, everyone knows everyone. The grocery store cashier also bartends at the corner pub; your childhood classmate might be your server at the local diner. It’s cozy, sure, but also occasionally mortifying. After all, it’s one thing to accidentally run into an ex, but quite another when their mom is asking you about her new carb-free sourdough recipe while you’re buying cookie dough for one.

But here’s what the forced closeness taught me: your people are out there—you’ve just got to recognize them. They could be the friend who remembers your coffee order, even when you don’t. The person who braves your unfiltered karaoke rendition of “Jolene” without bolting for the snowy hills. Or the partner who’s willing to stick it out when things get rocky, like a good Jeep driver navigating a 4x4 trail in late spring.

Much like Telluride’s local jam sessions, relationships work best when you’re in tune with each other. You can’t rush the harmony, and you certainly can’t fake it. And for the love of John Denver, don’t drag someone into your life who can’t appreciate your rhythm—off-key yodeling and all.

Be Willing to Weather the Storms

True story: Once, when I was fourteen, a sudden summer squall rolled in during a family trail ride. In less than ten minutes, our postcard-perfect afternoon turned into a torrential mess. Chairs of rain lashed down, the horses spooked at lightning spitting across the sky, and I, drenched and miserable, announced I was giving up. “This is it,” I declared dramatically. “We’re all gonna die out here.” My dad just laughed, handed me a trail mix bar, and said, “Keep moving—it’ll pass.”

He was right. Like most mountain storms, it passed as quickly as it arrived, leaving behind that earthy smell of wet pines and sagebrush and a sunset more vivid than anything Crayola has ever dared to dream up. It was messy, sure, but we made it.

If that’s not a metaphor for relationships, I don’t know what is. Romantic storms are inevitable—miscommunications, bad days, unexpected fears that shake what you thought was solid ground. But the lesson is in the trail mix: don’t give up at the first sign of rain. Keep moving. Keep talking. Weather the storm.

That said, some storms aren’t meant to be endured. If every day feels like thunderclouds and sideways rain, it’s okay to rechart your course. Knowing when to leave an unbearable storm isn’t quitting—it’s self-respect, plain and simple.

Stay Curious—About the World and Each Other

A lot of people think life in a small town is limiting. And sure, Telluride doesn’t have five-star dining on every corner or a bustling nightlife scene (unless you count arguing over pool tables at the bar). But I’d argue this town taught me how to be endlessly curious—about people, about places, about myself.

That curiosity runs through every good relationship too. The truth is, we’re all figuring ourselves out as we go along. Just when you think you know someone inside and out, they surprise you—you just have to stay curious enough to notice.

So ask the questions that matter. Sit around a rough wooden table (or a modern fiberglass one—up to you) with the person you love, and talk until the candles burn down or your laptop battery finally dies. What lights them up? What scares them? What will they never get tired of doing on a Sunday morning? And if they answer, try—just try—not to immediately leap to how it affects you. Be curious, not calculating.

Because while Telluride isn’t a big city, what it lacks in size, it makes up for with depth. And shouldn’t love be the same way?

Conclusion: Let the Place (and People) Shape You

Telluride made me—plain and simple. It gave me a compass I keep with me in relationships: the value of showing up for the climb, the joy of finding harmony, the grit to outlast the inevitable storms, and the quiet thrill of staying endlessly curious.

Wherever you are, take some time to think about the place that shaped you. What postcards—manure-stained or otherwise—has your hometown gifted you? It doesn’t have to look anything like a dramatic Rocky Mountain vista, but I promise, it holds just as much magic.

And when in doubt, pack trail mix. Always pack trail mix.