The hardest piece I’ve ever written didn't start with a wisp of inspiration by the firepit or a poetic metaphor drawn from a crisp Lake Tahoe sunrise. No, it started with a stupid pinecone.
A little background: When you write about the wilderness, there’s an unspoken rule that everything has to have meaning. A pinecone isn’t just a pinecone—it symbolizes growth, resilience, or some other overused hallmark of personal development. But this pinecone? It just sat there on my desk, a prickly little reminder of a deadline. I’d promised my editor a piece that would make readers feel deeply connected to nature. Instead, I stared at the thing, trying to convince myself that it had the answers.
Looking back, the pinecone wasn’t the problem. The problem was me. I had it in my head that every word needed to carry the weight of John Freaking Muir, but life (and writing) isn’t like that. Sometimes, a pinecone’s just a pinecone—no metaphors attached.
And weirdly enough, isn’t dating kind of the same way?
Section 1: The Myth of the "Perfect Piece" (or Person)
Here’s the thing that tripped me up about that pinecone, and maybe it’s tripping you up about dating too. We put so much pressure on ourselves to find the perfect one—whether it’s a partner, a job, or (in my case) the perfect words. Every date or creative endeavor carries this sense of, “What if it doesn’t live up to my expectations? What if I waste my time?”
It’s like hiking with someone who needs every mile to have mind-blowing views. Sure, the peaks are stunning, but the tiny mushrooms, the crunch of the trail, the random squirrel giving you its best “I work here” look? Those moments are where the connection happens.
When I sat down to write what would become the hardest piece I’ve ever written, I learned the danger of perfectionism firsthand. I wanted every word to feel profound, but soon I realized that just showing up and doing the work mattered more. Fumbling? Totally fine. Overthinking? Less so. The same goes for dating.
Section 2: Why "Good Enough" Is Usually Better
One of the hardest lessons I’ve learned in both relationships and writing? Forget perfection and embrace the mess.
The best essay I ever wrote wasn’t the one I agonized over; it was the one I scribbled in an afternoon while it stormed outside. I let go of expectations and stopped trying to be impressive. And oddly enough, that piece resonated with more people than anything I’d carefully polished.
And here’s the kicker: If you approach dating expecting every moment to gush with movie-romance charm, you’ll miss the parts that actually mean something. Your “good enough” first steps—awkward jokes, silences, or a weirdly specific chat about favorite granola bars (true story)—those are the pieces that weave into something deeper.
In dating, just like writing, anything “good enough” can grow into something better than we ever imagined.
Section 3: The Art of Sticking With It
In 2012, I spent three months living out of a tent while documenting wildflower blooms for a research project. It sounds poetic, right? But rewind to week two. My tent zipper broke, I reeked of bug spray, and the romantic notion of sleeping under the stars evaporated the exact second I realized mosquitoes don’t care about your vision quests.
Similarly, during the hardest piece I’ve ever written, I seriously thought about quitting halfway through. The struggle drained me (much like the bugs did), and I doubted the end product would be worth it. But I kept writing anyway—tapping away at the keyboard like someone staggering up a hill, hoping for a passable view.
When it comes to dating, I think people deserve a little credit for hanging in there, for sticking with the awkward dinners and unclear texting dynamics. It’s not easy, especially when the romanticized “sweep-us-off-our-feet” vision feels so far away. But staying in the game—whatever that looks like—gives us a fighting chance to find something worthwhile.
Section 4: Laugh at the Hard Parts
So what became of that pinecone essay? Let’s just say it wasn’t greeted with standing ovations, but it had something better: relatability. I stopped trying to write flowy prose about nature’s grandeur and told the truth about stalling out over something small and silly. Turns out, readers loved that honesty.
It reminded me that most people aren’t looking for sweeping declarations—they want the real stuff, the flaws, the humor, the way someone tells a story with mustard on their shirt and ocean salt in their hair.
Dating works the same way. If you can laugh at your own mishaps—like calling someone by the wrong name on date two or spilling coffee on yourself mid-flirt—you’re probably already connecting in a way that’s real. Vulnerability says, “Hey, I’m human,” and that’s the secret sauce of both love stories and good essays.
Section 5: Takeaways from the Pines (Literally)
I’d be lying if I said I ever look at that pinecone with misty eyes while hearing a soaring soundtrack of self-fulfillment. Sometimes, it’s just a silly desk decoration. But in writing that essay, I learned a few truths that carry into life, love, and everything else:
- Start before you’re ready. Whether it’s an awkward first date or a piece you’re dreading, half the battle is just showing up.
- Trial (and error) is part of it. Not every word will sparkle; not every date will click. That’s okay—it’s progress, not perfection, that counts.
- Find the humor. Stuck in silence? Laugh about it. Nervous about trying something new? Make a joke. Humor connects.
- Breathe through the hard parts. Whether it’s creative struggle or real-life heartbreak, the only way out is through. You’re tougher than you think.
- Trust the process. (Even when it sucks.) There’s beauty in sticking with something—even if all you get at the end is a better understanding of yourself.
Section 6: Closing Thoughts
The hardest piece I’ve ever written taught me something surprising—not about writing, but about being real. I used to think that the magic of connection (whether in words or romance) came from nailing the presentation. Now, I get why some edges are better a little rough, why awkwardness and imperfection are the cracks where light gets in.
Honestly? The same goes for that difficult date you’re overthinking or that relationship moment you can’t quite articulate. The good stuff often hides on the other side of discomfort or failure.
So, take the first step. Write the messy piece. Go on the coffee date. Look at your own proverbial pinecone and just start. Who knows? It might just turn into something you’ll look back on and smile about—even laugh about—someday.
