There’s an old saying you’ll hear down here in Savannah: “If these walls could talk…” It’s a wistful nod to the past, imagining the whispers and secrets trapped in the antebellum homes that flank our streets. As someone who grew up tiptoeing around those storied mansions (sometimes literally—my dad was forever worried about me scuffing the hardwood floors he'd restored), I’ve often wondered: What does it mean to have something to stand for? To navigate life with your own set of personal creeds—like a home braced firmly against the weather?

Call me old-fashioned, but I think the most authentic and satisfying relationships—romantic or otherwise—are built on this kind of foundation: a shared commitment to what we stand for, even if the “walls” aren’t always pristine. And so, I’ve made it a mission to define what I stand for, and to let those guiding principles infuse everything I do—especially my writing about relationships. Because whether you’re navigating a classic Southern soirée or your third awkward group text with a partner’s besties, knowing what you stand for makes all the difference.

1. Kindness: The Underrated Panacea

I’ll be honest—my early twenties were peppered with flirtations that felt more like historic renovations than real romances. I believed, wholeheartedly, that if I just put in enough elbow grease and patience, I could single-handedly transform any charming but crumbling connection into something grand. (Spoiler: that rarely works.) Somewhere between my fifth re-read of "The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter" and a particularly dramatic breakup, I came to realize that relationships without kindness will inevitably sag like a porch swing missing a chain.

Kindness, I’ve learned, is more than just being polite. It’s compassion when someone is at their most vulnerable. It’s biting back the snippy comment you want to make after they forget your coffee order for the third time in a row. And it’s not just about how you treat others, but how you treat yourself. I used to be my own harshest critic—thinking every awkward pause or emotionally clunky text exchange meant I’d somehow failed. But extending a little kindness inward has taught me to cut the narrative of “I should have been better” and replace it with, “I’m doing my best.”

If you want actionable advice? Here goes: Before you overanalyze, snap, or ghost, pause and ask, “How would I like to be treated in this moment?” You’ll be surprised how many arguments that simple question can sidestep.

2. Humor: The Glue (or the Gravy)

People often think of Southern charm as all porch cocktails and impeccable manners, but that’s a surface-level view. True Southern charm—for me—comes with equal parts wit and warmth. It’s found in the old man telling corny jokes waiting for his biscuit at the diner just as much as the polished society matron trading sly quips at happy hour. And it’s an essential ingredient for any relationship worth its salt.

Take my parents, for example. My father, endlessly pragmatic, once compared my mother’s hours-long piano practices to “a Civil War siege.” My mother—unflappable—replied, “Well, at least I’m winning it.” Their banter has carried them through decades of marriage, proving that humor, when lightly applied (unlike an over-salted Lowcountry stew), smooths the rough patches of life like nothing else.

In my own dating history, I’ve found humor to be a kind of compass. If we couldn’t laugh together about the time I tripped over cobblestones or spilled gumbo on my dress, it usually signaled larger disconnects. (Like, say, wildly different ideas about what constitutes “fun.”) The actionable tip here? Pay attention to how humor flows in your relationships—does it bring you closer, or does it feel like a performance?

3. Independence: The Ghost Story of Modern Love

Growing up surrounded by Savannah’s languid beauty, I spent a lot of time perched high on balconies, spinning stories about “who I’d be” when I left home. At the time, independence felt like an escape—a wide, uncharted horizon waiting just past the marshy borders of this town that sometimes felt too small.

But adulthood revealed that real independence isn’t just about physical space or dramatic declarations of, “I don’t need anyone!” It’s about knowing yourself enough to choose connection, not cling to it out of fear or necessity. Think of it this way: Independence is the solid foundation beneath the home, the thing that keeps the structure from toppling when the storms (or stress-induced arguments) roll in.

In dating, this means being aware of where self-discovery ends and co-dependence begins. It took me a while to see the difference. My early relationships leaned too much on self-sacrifice—there were years I adjusted myself to fit someone else’s idea of “perfect” the way decorators choose bland beige tones to suit all tastes. That’s not romantic; that’s exhausting. Now, I stand firm in my love of oddball art exhibits and midnight drives—not because I need someone to join me, but because I’m comfortable loving those things by myself.

Pro tip? If you want to feel truly sexy, skip the superficial changes (like pretending to love Nascar or kale) and lean into what makes you, you. Independence shines brighter than pretense ever could.

4. Vulnerability: The Open Door Policy

If the Savannah homes I grew up around taught me anything, it’s that the most beautiful spaces often require the most effort to care for. Peeling back wallpaper reveals cracks; weatherproofing takes time. Relationships, no matter how romanticized, are no different. Vulnerability is the open-door policy that keeps the heart of a relationship alive—even when risking hurt feels terrifying.

I learned this the hard way during a relationship that felt perfect on paper but left me perpetually drained. The issue, I realized, was that I was scared to speak up: to admit when I felt hurt, or frustrated, or just in need of reassurance. I’d painted myself into a picture of perfection, afraid a single crack would send the whole thing crumbling down. Spoiler alert: it didn’t work. (If you’ve ever begun a sentence with “It’s fine,” only to stew about it for three days, you’ll know what I mean.)

Letting myself be vulnerable now means saying the hard things with grace, asking for what I need, and opening up before resentment builds a brick wall. Advice, Southern-style? Vulnerability is like sweet tea—it’s best when measured, honest, and served up deliberately.

5. Nostalgia: Keeping the Best, Leaving the Rest

As someone whose writing often dances in the sepia-toned glow of Southern nostalgia, I’ve learned to navigate its double-edged nature. While it’s tempting to glaze over the messy parts of our personal histories, the truth is we make better connections when we acknowledge them—flaws and all. Nostalgia in relationships is no different. There’s value in honoring the lessons of our past while leaving behind what doesn’t serve us.

For instance, one of my great romances involved epic mix CDs, hours-long road trips, and the kind of wildly passionate arguments Nicholas Sparks would envy. While it’s tempting to pine for that cinematic intensity, in hindsight, it burned bright because it was fleeting. Would I want that all-consuming chaos now? Absolutely not. My takeaway was the ability to appreciate grand romantic gestures in moderation—less Rhett Butler, more soft, consistent affection.

If you’re clinging too much to the past, ask yourself: “Am I holding onto a relationship, or a memory?” Then, stand firm in what you need now.

Brick by Brick

Flannery O’Connor once wrote, “Truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.” That’s been my North Star in relationships. Knowing what I stand for—and committing to those truths—has been my way of building connections that last. Whether I’m laughing too loudly at a bad joke, asking for what I need, or simply standing still in my love for others and myself, I know that when my walls talk, they’re always saying something worth hearing.

And so, to you I say: Stand firm. Stand tall. And if all else fails, plant yourself on the front porch swing with someone worth weathering the storms with.