It’s funny how a place gets into your bones. Not the way a song or a scent lingers, more like the way the smell of rain after a drought cracks open a forgotten corner of your soul. For me, that place is Jackson, Wyoming. But don’t let the Hallmark movie aesthetic fool you – the wood smoke rising from lodge chimneys, the snow-glazed Tetons in the background, the cowboys strutting through town wearing too much swagger for one belt buckle. It’s not all postcard perfect. It’s grit wrapped in beauty. It’s life lessons wrapped in flannel.

Let me take you to the place that made me and show you how it whispered everything I know about love, work, and the mess we call life. Because whether you’re getting to know a new partner or just trying to get to know yourself, one thing’s for sure: your roots matter.

The Ranch Rules for Relationships

I was raised on a ranch just outside of town, where figuring out relationships was as practical as mucking stalls and stacking fence posts. If you can’t weather the tough stuff, you’re in for a busted wagon wheel before the journey’s even begun. My parents had this saying: “There’s no such thing as too much hay in the barn.” It was their way of reminding us kids to prepare for the hard seasons—the inevitable Wyoming blizzards when your survival depends on what you’ve stockpiled.

Turns out, that’s excellent advice for love, too. It's not about hay after all—it's about trust, patience, and a shared willingness to put in the work when skies go gray. I’ve seen too many relationships fall apart because one person thought charm alone could plow the field, only to find themselves staring at rows of unplanted wheat when times got tough. Newsflash: emotional grime, like manure, is part of the process. Roll up your sleeves.

And you know what? Grit is hot. I’m not saying you have to know your way around a baling hook, but there’s something undeniably magnetic about a partner who’s unafraid to get dirty for the people (and things) they care most about. Discipline over drama, effort over empty promises.

The Rhythm of the Tetons

When I wasn’t stacking hay bales taller than myself, I was stumbling through first crushes and teenage awkwardness against one of the most glorious backdrops nature has to offer. The Tetons are bold, uncompromising peaks that dominate the landscape, unapologetically existing as they are—imperfectly perfect. If that isn’t love advice in mountain form, I don’t know what is.

You see, anyone can coast through the first sunny weeks of a new relationship, but when the rainstorms roll in—an offhanded comment that hits harder than it should, or the first time you both realize laughter won’t solve everything—you’ll need more than charm and lip service. Mountains don’t apologize for their scars. They gather snowfall and shed it in avalanches. They endure wind and erosion, yet they’re still standing tall. The Tetons taught me that vulnerability is strength, not weakness.

Think about it. In dating, wouldn’t you rather someone show you their chipped edges than try to pass themselves off as polished granite? C’mon. Give me an honest heart every time.

Small Towns and Big Lessons on Chemistry

Jackson is one of those places where everyone—and I mean everyone—knows your name, your dog’s name, and possibly your high school GPA. This made sneaking around during teenage romances hilariously futile. Thankfully, it also taught me a few things that still serve me in my adult relationships.

Living in a small town slaps you with one unavoidable truth: relationships aren’t built in bubbles. They exist within a community. That pleasantly flirty dude from the coffee shop? If the gal at checkout warns you to “watch yourself,” you might want to listen. Chemistry’s great, but don’t ignore the context—and, let’s be honest, your friends’ full-body cringe speaks louder than butterflies. Trust the people who care about you to give it to you straight.

Jackson also showed me how chemistry evolves. Want to light a fire? That requires oxygen. Similarly, love needs space to thrive. It’s a tricky balance, like slow-dancing at a cowboy bar without stepping on anyone’s toes. But when you get that rhythm right? Sparks can last through summer hailstorms and surprise snowfalls.

Where the Wild Meets the Real

If there’s a single place that seals the deal when it comes to what Jackson taught me about love, it’s the backcountry. I logged countless miles guiding tourists into the wilderness, convincing wide-eyed visitors that bear spray was not, in fact, optional. Out there, away from Wi-Fi and 24/7 distractions, people show you exactly who they are. The rugged Wyoming terrain strips away small talk, leaving space for raw connection.

Some of my clients came to the trail for adventure only to find a version of themselves they’d forgotten existed—one not reliant on affirmation texts or heart-eye emojis. Others discovered that traveling together meant learning patience or even facing ugly truths. (If your partner is short-fused while rationing trail snacks, take note.)

In relationships, as in the wilderness, adaptability is everything. You’ll misread the signs now and then—maybe you’ll take the wrong path or lose your map to a river crossing—but if you’ve chosen your trail partner wisely, they’ll grab your hand and laugh through the chaos with you.

Also, always carry snacks. And no, that’s not a metaphor for emotional baggage; it’s just common sense.

A Home for the Heart

Jackson doesn’t fit neatly into any one box—it’s part rugged Wild West, part tourist chaos, part pristine nature. And somewhere in its mishmash of identities, I learned that a strong relationship doesn’t have to fit one mold, either.

It’s not always pretty. (Did I mention the mud? There’s a lot of mud.) Sometimes, life looks like mountain vistas. Other times, it’s staring at the dented hood of a truck you slammed into a fence post in a snowstorm. And the thing is, love happens in both places. It’s in the shared sunrise and the moments when your boots are soaked, and you’re just trying to make it back to the barn without losing a toe to frostbite.

For me, Jackson has always been the compass that keeps me steady. Wherever you find your roots—whether it’s a bustling city, a sleepy corner of suburbia, or, yeah, even the chaos of a dating app—I hope they remind you to carry hay for the hard winters, to own your scars like mountain ranges, and to laugh when the trail gets messy.

It doesn’t matter where you’re from; it matters where your heart’s at. Grit, patience, and a pocketful of metaphorical (or literal) snacks will get you where you need to go.

Now, go find your Tetons—or your mud puddles. Whatever works.