There’s a certain kind of magic in growing up in a city that feels alive—where the air hums with history, and every street corner seems to whisper a secret. Savannah, my Savannah, is that kind of place. From the time I could toddle, I’ve been held by her moss-draped arms, invited to sit for a spell and listen. And while she left an indelible mark on the way I see the world, it wasn’t until my adult years—often over the unraveling drama of a dating life gone slightly haywire—that I truly understood all she’d taught me about love, connection, and the importance of knowing who you are before you try to share that person with someone else.

The Ghosts We Carry

Savannah has a way of winking at you, as if she knows the answers to questions you don’t yet know how to ask. It’s a city steeped in contrasts: the romantic elegance of old mansions shadowed by palmetto trees standing beside graveyards where Spanish moss dips and sways like an unspoken warning. There’s beauty here, but also a reminder that nothing is quite what it seems—a first date red flag if ever there was one.

When I was younger, I used to think romance was all about grandeur: maybe it was growing up surrounded by people throwing elaborate garden parties under glinting chandeliers or binging too many Regency-era novels. Romance was roses and dramatic proclamations; it was perfect lighting and perfectly choreographed moments. But beneath that glossy Southern charm lay Savannah’s darker edges—misty mornings dripping in the unsaid and nights with velvet skies that carried stories our ancestors were too polite to share.

What Savannah taught me, long before my first heartbreak, was that every love carries ghosts. People come into relationships with baggage—breathable, manageable, but real. I’d seen it in the way my parents danced around their own unspoken disappointments, carefully preserved like heirlooms on a mantel. And I saw it later, too, sitting across from dates who—charming as they might be—still clung to their own haunting histories.

The lesson? Know your own ghosts before you try to exorcise someone else’s. And believe me, there’s nothing like a good old-fashioned Savannah thunderstorm to remind you of that.

Love, Southern Style

If you’ve spent any time in the South, you know there’s an unspoken etiquette to everything—whether it’s how to properly introduce yourself (look them in the eye, sugar) or how to end things when love inevitably hits a snag (bless their heart, but…). In Savannah, things aren’t rushed. Courtship moves at the pace of a slow stroll through Forsyth Park or an afternoon spent sipping sweet tea, and I suppose that’s influenced the way I approach relationships.

That patience, though? I can’t take full credit—it’s pure Savannah. It comes from nights sitting on my grandmother’s back porch, tracing constellations with a flashlight as she told me the same story about her first love for the hundredth time. It’s in the art of attending to details, learned from a childhood of meandering downtown squares, noticing the tiny imperfections in wrought iron gates or the way ivy clings like it belongs. It’s knowing the value of stillness.

Does this translate perfectly to relationships? Not exactly. Being raised in a city that emphasizes preservation makes it awfully hard to separate “what could be fixed” from “what should be let go.” Some people aren’t lovely old houses you can just restore—they’re leaky roofs or cracked foundations that aren’t your job to patch up. (Looking at you, guy who spent an entire first date talking about his ex.) Savannah insists on saving what it can, but it also taught me the necessity of discernment: not everything survives the storm.

Cheap Wine and Chipped Courtyards

Let me share a memory. I was twenty-three, sitting on the steps of an old cobblestone square downtown, three glasses deep into a bottle of red wine that tasted like someone had wrung it out of a Jolly Rancher. I’d come here after yet another breakup—not my worst, but definitely one of those that leaves you shuffling through your contacts, ready to text someone who wouldn’t ghost you mid-sentence. Savannah, at least, seemed to understand.

There in that chipped courtyard with uneven bricks beneath me, I realized something important. We put too much stock in perfection. We think, maybe if I just looked like that, or acted like this—then I’d have the guarantee of love. But there’s incredible power in leaning into your imperfections, in showing up messy and real. As Savannah’s worn shutters and overrun gardens can attest, authenticity is far more interesting than polish.

So, I stopped worrying about being Southern Belle perfect and embraced being more of a quirky muse. I traded high heels for scuffed sneakers on dates, swapped robotic “What are your hobbies?” questions for reckless overshares about my favorite Flannery O’Connor short stories. To my shock, this worked. People don’t fall for your choreography—they fall for your chaos, for the chipped-paint parts you think you need to hide.

What Spanish Moss Taught Me About Resilience

If I were to sum up Savannah in one image, it’d be the Spanish moss. Draping over live oaks in a way that’s equal parts eerie and elegant, it’s a reminder that growth often happens in unexpected, somewhat messy ways. Spanish moss doesn’t draw its sustenance from the trees it clings to, but from the air—and in that sense, it’s entirely self-sufficient.

Here’s the thing about relationships: they can’t be the tree you grow on. They can hold you, nurture you, shelter you—but you have to source your strength from within. One of my favorite dates involved wandering past historic row houses and watching the way the vines grew wild on their stone facades. It occurred to me then that love isn’t about entanglement; it’s about roots, stability. We can be intertwined without suffocating one another. Like the Spanish moss, we grow together most beautifully when we allow each other to breathe.

The Lesson in Every Square

Savannah is a city laid out practically, with her classic squares anchoring its downtown grid. Each square is a story—where soldiers marched, where lovers quarreled, where people met and parted, laughed and cried. And just like these squares, every relationship you’ll ever have offers its own lesson.

Some squares? Gorgeous, lush, enchanting—a romance that feels like holding hands during a springtime stroll. Others are plainer, forgettable—a relationship that, while necessary for your growth, leaves nothing in its wake you care to revisit. And occasionally, you’ll stumble into a square scarred by time or tragedy—a moment in your life that hurts, but ultimately shapes you into someone stronger. The beauty of Savannah is that every square has a purpose, echoing into your next step forward.

And so does every connection. I don’t regret a single heartbreak (well, maybe one or two); they’re all part of the grand design, a slow weave I’ve come to embrace as lovely, even when it’s imperfect.

The Takeaway: Romance Like a Savannah Sunset

There’s a time just before night falls, when the pinks and purples of the sky melt into deep indigo, bathing the marshes in a gilded glow that photographers can’t help but chase. That’s Savannah’s magic hour—the gentle, enduring way she gifts you something to hold on to.

In dating, in relationships, and in life, that’s what we’re all chasing. Some transient beauty we can preserve, even if we don’t quite know how. We can’t control whether love—true, breathtaking love—will come to us this year, this month, or this week. But in the meantime, we can focus on restoring our own beautiful old houses, embracing our imperfections, and letting the Spanish moss remind us that resilience is always elegant.

And when you walk through life with that kind of Savannah grace? Trust me. Love will find its way to your square.