What I Stand For

When you grow up on a ranch in Big Sky Country, you learn a few things early: how to sit a horse without looking like a sack of potatoes, how to tell if a storm is coming just by the way the air smells, and how to carry yourself like you mean it—even when you’re covered in barn muck and your only audience is a skeptical-looking goat. For me, those lessons stuck in unexpected ways, shaping not only how I live but also the way I approach relationships, writing, and, well, the whole messy, beautiful business of being human.

Life out here teaches you that what you stand for isn’t about grand declarations—it’s about how you show up, especially when no one’s looking. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned (besides the fact that goats will eat everything, even the buttons off your shirt), it’s that standing for something—whether it’s honesty, kindness, or simply the courage to try—makes all the difference in how you connect with others and, more importantly, with yourself.

Honesty Shouldn’t Feel Like a Rodeo Clown Routine

Let’s talk about honesty. Online, we slap it across dating profiles or bios like it’s easy. “Looking for someone honest!” we insist, but here’s the truth: honesty is usually the first thing to bolt when things get uncomfortable. It doesn’t just mean saying how you feel when everything’s peachy—it’s about owning up when your metaphorical horse throws a shoe and things feel stuck in the mud.

I owe this belief to an unforgettable childhood memory: my dad once swapped in a younger, prettier horse during a tourist's “Western Adventure,” figuring they wouldn’t notice that their “gentle trail buddy” had been benched. What happened? Predictably, the new horse threw a fit halfway through, leaving an out-of-shape banker clinging to the saddle horn like his life depended on it. My dad had to run into the field to get them, sheepishly explaining the mix-up.

Honesty means not trying to pass off something as different than it really is—whether that's yourself on a first date or your feelings in year five of marriage. It’s about bucking perfection and trusting that the right people will hold on, even when things get bumpy.

Kindness Means Showing Up—Even When It’s a Slog

You ever tried splitting a stack of firewood in January when it’s -10 degrees outside, knowing the heat it provides won’t come for hours? That’s kindness: doing the thankless work now, for the payoff later. Relationships are no different. Kindness, in practice, isn’t always grand gestures or well-timed compliments (though I’ll take those, don’t get me wrong)—it’s the small actions you repeat with intention: checking in after a long day, listening without waiting for your turn to speak, or refilling their coffee before they ask.

It’s easy to be kind when things feel fresh and romantic, but showing up when the shine wears off—that’s the real beauty. I think about my mom, who spent every summer chasing late-arriving tourists down the gravel driveway to return wallets, sunglasses, and even the occasional cowboy hat. She didn’t have to, but she did because she knew those moments mattered.

So in love, be the person who picks up the metaphorical hat, even if your partner forgets to say thank you every time. Those little moments pile up like firewood—small individual logs that build into something solid, steady, and warm.

Embrace the Wild (and Weird) Joy of Being Yourself

Do you know what happens when you work too hard to fit in? You miss the magic of standing out. Growing up, I couldn’t have been less “cool” if I tried. While kids in big cities were debating which brand of jeans to covet, I was sneaking worn copies of John Steinbeck novels into my saddlebag and arguing with my parents about whether my horse could probably live in my bedroom. (Spoiler alert: they won, the horse did not.)

But here’s the thing about authenticity: it’s disarming. When you really lean into who you are—even the messy parts you think you should tuck away—you make room for other people to do the same. My husband says—half-jokingly—that he fell for me because I once confessed that I eat peanut butter straight out of the jar at midnight, wielding the spoon like a weapon to fend off anyone who dares interrupt.

Love isn’t about presenting a polished, perfect picture. It’s about saying, “This is who I am, and I’m trusting you’ll like it—road dust, weird hobbies, and all.” And if they don’t? Well, grab your peanut butter spoon and ride off into the sunset on your own, knowing you’re better off.

Connection > Perfection (Seriously)

Growing up in the Rockies, you spend a lot of time in places with spotty Wi-Fi and roughly three other people within a 20-mile radius. This environment forces you to connect deeply once you finally find someone to talk to—whether that’s over campfire smoke or leaning on a fence post after a long day. The West has no time for small talk; it’s all, “How’d you fix the tractor after that storm?” and “Do you think the coyotes are getting too close to the barn again?”

This is what I crave in relationships: connection that shoots straight for the soul. Forget trying to project some airbrushed version of perfection. The times I’ve felt closest to someone were the moments after I stumbled—whether figuratively or, in one case, literally into a patch of poison ivy on a first date. (Yes, that happened. Yes, there was a rash. No, they didn’t ghost me after.)

Connection is all about showing your unvarnished self—the bumps, the quirks, the occasional awkward pauses—and not only letting someone see that but daring to believe they’ll stay anyway. Spoiler alert: they usually will.

The Courage to Keep Trying

Sometimes, things fall apart anyway. Maybe it's the relationship that ended before you could say everything you meant to. Or the dream you chased that didn't quite pan out like you’d hoped. (Ask me sometime about the attempt I made at building my own chicken coop. Not the resounding success you might imagine.)

But the act of trying? That’s what matters. In love, in life, in anything worth doing—keep showing up. Maybe you get burned. Maybe you end up with a structurally questionable coop that makes the rooster nervous. So what? You have another go. You learn a little more about how to handle the nails, the wood, the risks.

Whether it’s heartbreak or starting over, the courage to give it another shot is the ultimate act of self-trust. And trust me on this: You’re braver than you think.

Final Thoughts: What I Stand For, and What You Can, Too

At the heart of it, what I stand for can be boiled down to a simple, down-home mantra: show up, keep it real, and be kind. Whether you’re mending fences or navigating love’s trickier trails, you’re always better off leading with authenticity and care. Sure, it might mean some bruises along the way—both metaphorical and literal (again, let’s not discuss the poison ivy incident)—but it also means you’re living fully and beautifully, no matter where the path takes you.

So saddle up, lean into the wind, and trust that just being you is not only enough—it’s exactly right. Because the best relationships, like the best trails, are the ones that feel honest, rugged, and just a little wild. You’ve got this. And if all else fails? Well, there’s always peanut butter straight out of the jar.