The Place That Made Me
When I tell people I’m from Montgomery, Alabama, I get one of two reactions. Either they say, "Oh, isn't that where the bus boycott happened?" or they ask if I know where to find good barbecue nearby. The answer to both is a resounding yes. Montgomery is a city where history leans heavy on your shoulders while the smell of smoked pork hangs in the air as if it's trying to ground you in the present. For better or worse, Montgomery shaped me—my quirks, my beliefs, the way I navigate life, love, and everything in between.
But this isn’t a story about history class. It’s about understanding where you come from and how that plays into who you are when you try (sometimes unsuccessfully) to connect with other people.
The Weight of a Place
Growing up in Montgomery, you learn early on that your city is both infamous and extraordinary. There’s something kind of surreal about field trips to landmarks that appear in every American history textbook. One minute, I’d be taking notes on Rosa Parks’ quiet defiance from the very spot it began; the next, I’d be sitting with friends in a booth at Chris’ Hot Dogs, debating whether chili sauce belongs on fries (it does, but you didn’t hear that from me). The juxtaposition between the monumental and the mundane taught me to see meaning everywhere.
In relationships, I’ve discovered this sense of duality shows up, too. Everyone has their epic, life-defining moments—those breaking points or victories they tell in dramatic detail to people they trust. But just as telling are the small, everyday things: how someone makes their coffee, which songs they hum when they think no one’s listening, and if they insist on putting their ketchup in the fridge (a red flag, in my honest opinion). Montgomery taught me to treasure the big and the small alike. Perhaps that’s why I spent half an hour debating on a second date whether looking for love on a trivia team meant we were overly earnest or just downright hopeful. (Spoiler: he never called again, but hey, I crushed the category on state capitals.)
Lessons From a Land of Stories
If you grew up with educators as parents, then maybe you understand how I spent most of my childhood surrounded by books and not-so-subtle lectures disguised as loving advice. My dad would quote To Kill a Mockingbird in the same tone other dads use to discuss SEC football stats. Montgomery was more than a place—we treated it like a living, breathing story. Its past wasn’t just full of famous names and dates but real-life narratives of people who wanted things, risked everything, and sometimes got hurt along the way.
This shaped me in ways I didn’t realize until I started dating. I’ve always been drawn to people who know themselves—what kind of story they’re trying to tell and why. (Pro tip: nothing makes me swipe left faster than someone saying, “I don’t really know what I’m looking for, just seeing where things go.” Sir, please. Even the fall of Rome had an outline.) Knowing your own story is key because relationships, at their core, are about trying to fit yours alongside another person’s. Some pieces align beautifully; others? Well, you find out pretty quickly when they don’t.
Like the time I dated someone who called Montgomery “that boring Civil Rights museum town” when I tried explaining why the Edmund Pettus Bridge makes me cry every time. His comment felt like someone slicing right through the heart of who I am. In hindsight, the clear mismatch still stings less than the fact that I ordered dessert even after the jab (pecan pie, if you’re wondering—it’s a weakness). Here’s what I know now: dates might fizzle, but a good story, much like a good slice of pie, always holds its own.
The Art of Loving (and Leaving) a Place
When I finally left Montgomery to attend Auburn University, I wasn’t sure whether I was running toward something or away from it. The truth is probably both. By then, I’d lived enough life there to appreciate its magic but also to wrestle with its complications. Montgomery taught me the importance of holding space for two conflicting truths at once: the ache of its painful history and the hope that things could someday be better.
That lesson comes up constantly in relationships, whether we like it or not. Falling for someone means falling for all their contradictions, too—their strengths, insecurities, and stubborn refusal to put their socks in the hamper. Loving people is complicated because people are complicated. I learned this lesson the hard way when a five-year relationship ended over a disagreement about where our future was headed. (Spoiler: he wanted small-town Alabama comfort, and I wanted something bigger—more room to stretch, even if I didn’t know where it was yet.) Even though leaving him broke something in me, it also gave me the strength to know I deserved someone who embraced nuance without fear.
Breakups aren’t easy, but neither is leaving a place behind. And sometimes, you have to do both to learn who you are when you’re standing on your own.
Finding Yourself Between the Stories
After collecting oral histories in rural parts of the South and spending too much of my twenties journaling like I was the next Cheryl Strayed, I moved back to Montgomery. It hasn’t been perfect—reentry into your hometown, with all its familiar comforts and frustrations, rarely is. And yet, I keep coming back because this city holds my roots and because it reminds me what I’m trying to grow into.
Relationships work the same way. You don’t need to have it all figured out (hint: no one does), but it helps to know what grounds you. What parts of your story are non-negotiable? What do you carry with you no matter where your life goes? Turns out, I carried more of Montgomery than I ever expected—front porch conversations that stretch into the night, gospel music loud enough to shake the walls, and unapologetic devotion to sweet tea and unvarnished truth.
Closing the Chapter
Montgomery, with all its complexities and contradictions, taught me what it means to love and be loved. It showed me the beauty of shared stories, how to forgive myself and others when things fall apart, and why some things are worth staying for (pecan pie, Rosa Parks, and dime tours of Dexter Avenue Baptist Church among them). And maybe that’s the ultimate takeaway: we are all shaped by the places and people who make us, but it’s how we carry those lessons forward that matters most.
So here’s to Montgomery—and to the parts of yourself you didn’t even know you were learning to love. Go ahead, order that dessert on the bad date, take the risks, and never stop fighting for the connections that truly mean something. The places we come from might define our beginnings, but the rest of the story? That’s on us to write.
