My grandmother used to say, "Ebony, every story carries a little piece of you, like it’s stitched into your spirit." At eight years old, I thought she was being overly poetic (a habit of hers). But now, decades later, those words have become my personal gospel—because in my family, storytelling isn’t just conversation; it’s communion. While some families pass down heirlooms, our legacy was delivered in oral histories, garnished with laughter, dramatics, and a touch of exaggeration. These tales didn’t just entertain; they shaped how I view relationships, love, and connection. And y’all, let me tell you—I've brought every single one of those lessons to the dating table.

The Auntie Chronicles: Love, Patience, and an Overabundance of Side-Eye

My great-aunt Vera was the undisputed queen of side-eye. She wielded her skepticism like a scepter, not maliciously but protectively, as if shielding her loved ones from the world’s nonsense. If someone in the family started dating someone new, Aunt Vera would inspect that person like she was TSA at a small Southern airport. “Can they pray and two-step?” she’d ask. If you couldn’t do both, you failed.

What she really taught me, though, was patience. Aunt Vera’s marriage—one that survived three kids, a stubborn mule of a year 12, and his-and-hers recliners—was all about balance. She’d tell me that love wasn’t just fire; it was consistency. “Honey,” she said one rainy night while feeding me fried okra, “the flutter in your heart is easy. It’s the flutter in your spirit that takes work.”

Those words have saved me more than once from spinning a romantic connection into a Nicholas Sparks novel. The next time you’re swept up in the thrill of infatuation, pause and ask yourself: does this person calm your spirit or just set your pulse racing? Attraction gets the door open, but shared peace makes you stay.

The Sandy Lesson: "Don't Marry Him if He Won't Share His Shrimp"

Now, Aunt Vera was the matriarch, but it was Uncle Junior who gave me one of the bluntest and oddly practical relationship lessons of my life. Picture it: Charleston, summer, backyard charcoal grill smoking in the midday heat. Junior was crouched over a cooler of shrimp, bribing me with fresh-caught seafood in exchange for being his gofer. As he expertly skewered shrimp, he shared his marriage wisdom between bites of cornbread and banter with my cousins.

“You see that shrimp?” he asked, holding up one particularly large one like it was a treasure map. “Ain’t no shrimp bigger than marriage. If you won’t share the good stuff, what’s the point of getting hitched?”

I laughed then, thinking he was just being his usual ornery self, but it’s been etched in me ever since. I’ve realized that in every romantic relationship worth its salt, there’s some version of the "shrimp test." Whether it’s generosity with food, honesty with vulnerabilities, or space on the couch during movie night, the essence is the same: are you willing to share your best with this person? It’s less about grand romantic gestures and more about everyday sacrifices.

So, here’s today’s reminder: pay attention to how someone shares. If their love language speaks fluent hoarding, they may not be partner material.

Gullah Ghost Stories and the Art of Emotional Clarity

Growing up, the Gullah culture wasn’t just something we celebrated; it was stitched into the contours of my life. From the sing-song patois of my grandmother’s morning greetings to nights spent retelling ghost stories that had been passed down generations, I was taught the art of storytelling as a means to understand truths about life and people. One particular tale still lingers with me—a haunting story about a young woman who ignored the warnings of an old spirit and chose a man who was, well... trash (spiritual paraphrasing, of course).

The moral of the story was simple yet transformative: our instincts are often louder than we know. We just choose to drown them out—sometimes out of fear, sometimes because the man looked good in a suit. Now, I’m not saying every wrong decision will summon the ancestors (although in a family steeped in traditions, it has occasionally felt like that), but what I’ve learned is to trust emotional clarity when it hits.

For you, this might mean recognizing when someone’s words and actions don’t align or when your heart starts sending subtle warning alarms that you’re not compatible. Saving yourself now beats a visit from figurative (or literal) ghosts later.

When in Doubt, Call the Council

In my family, no romantic decision existed in a vacuum. Got a new crush? The family needed details. Had relationship drama? Aunt Mildred was taking notes, and my cousin Nikki would clock the side angle on your excuses faster than a high-speed camera. Nobody made decisions alone, and while it occasionally felt invasive (imagine being grilled about your date’s life goals before you’re even sure you’re into them), it resulted in better clarity and humor.

The point is, relationships are hard enough without trying to navigate them in a silo. Whether it’s biological family, chosen family, or your group chat squad that rivals Beyoncé’s inner circle, don’t make love decisions without a sounding board. Other people might see what your rose-colored glasses overlook.

Big Picture Love: Building Your Own Stories

As I get older, I realize that my family's tales weren’t just meant to entertain me or keep me in touch with tradition. They were blueprints—maps that laid out lessons on love, patience, laughter, forgiveness, and red flags (oh, so many red flags). Whether they were tales of Uncle Junior’s stubborn selflessness or my grandmother’s quiet strength, each story built my foundation for relationships.

But here’s the thing I’ll say to wrap this up: while it’s a gift to inherit your family’s wisdom, don’t be afraid to rewrite or create your own stories. An “old soul” perspective is great, but your chapters still need to reflect your truths. Keep what works, reframe what doesn’t, and keep laughing along the way.

Like my grandmother said, every story carries a piece of you—so make sure yours is the good kind.