Growing up in Charleston’s peninsula neighborhood, where azalea blooms crept over historic iron gates, I learned early on that traditions and stories hold power. Ours was a community steeped in culture—the rhythm of spirituals rolling out of church doors, the smell of a neighbor’s Lowcountry boil wafting down the block—and with it came generations of love advice passed down like sweet potato pie recipes.

My grandmother, for instance, had two rules for relationships: never let anyone cut your lace apron, and always love yourself first. Confusing? Kind of. Wise? Definitely. Over time, I realized her words carried a deeper truth about self-worth and boundaries. But beyond the proverbs and rituals, I grew up witnessing connection as a day-to-day act: my grandparents shelling butter beans together on the porch; my parents slow-dancing to Al Green while dinner simmered. These were lessons I absorbed long before I knew the word “relationship”—and they’re why I chose to tread a path that blends storytelling, history, and love. Because, at its core, relationships are stories.

The Personal is the Universal

Let’s be real: I didn’t grow up thinking I’d become a writer focused on relationships (or much of anything beyond demolishing my mom’s fried chicken wings at Sunday dinner). But writing was my first love—one that came as easily as plucking magnolias from the neighbor’s tree. As I filled journal after journal, people kept showing up as my central theme. Why they stayed together. Why they fell apart. What made them return to each other.

It wasn’t until Spelman, in those lively dorm room debates about soulmates and independence—which somehow always circled back to Queen Sugar plot twists—that I recognized love was less a destination and more a deep, ever-shifting current. It’s not the Disney fairy tale we were fed; it’s messy, funny, beautiful, and sometimes hard as climbing that steep hill in Charleston’s summer heat. It’s also deeply universal, whether you’re sipping sweet tea on your front porch in Savannah or juggling a serious texting thread with your crush in Harlem.

Once I landed in New York for grad school, I thought I’d pivot to writing about Southern history exclusively. But instead, I found that every time I tried to tell a broader historical story, people and relationships were the core of it all. Love—its simplicity and its complexity—is always tied to identity, legacy, and who we aspire to be. And so, what started as storytelling turned into an examination of connection itself. I can still hear my grandmother’s voice: “Don’t ever give your apron strings away,” she’d say. But now, I finally get it. It’s all about holding onto your identity while building something meaningful with someone else.

The Lessons Charleston Taught Me about Love

It turns out, Charleston—the city I grew up in and eventually returned to—was the best classroom for understanding the depth of connection. Here’s why:

  1. Roots Matter.
    Charleston taught me that people’s histories—families, cultures, and the paths they’ve walked—have a way of showing up in relationships. When I reflect on my grandparents’ joy, it wasn’t the absence of struggle that strengthened them, but their shared values and belief in community. Similarly, relationships thrive when we honor where one another comes from, even as we create a future together.

  2. Love Takes Maintenance.
    In Charleston, storms meant pulling out buckets for leaks or patching up shutters—but you didn’t just abandon the house. Relationships, like historic homes, take effort and regular upkeep. It’s about refreshing the paint, fixing the cracks, and being patient with the creaks. Sure, it’s labor, but man, that restored glow is worth it.

  3. A Little Magic Goes a Long Way.
    In Gullah Geechee tradition, there’s a belief in the power of “sweet water,” a kind of spiritual energy to cleanse and attract positivity. While I won’t claim to bottle magic in mason jars, we can channel its spirit into our connections—through small, thoughtful moments. Whether it’s a handwritten note or surprising your person with the cornbread from their favorite diner, these acts are the pixie dust of long-lasting love.

Writing as a Love Language

When I transitioned to writing as a career, I saw quickly that storytelling is its own love language. It’s about pulling threads of emotion, sharing truths, and helping people make sense of what they’re feeling. I may not bat a thousand in my own romantic life (funnily enough, writers with all the love advice don’t always practice it—call it a hazard of the gig), but I’ve learned how to draw out what makes relationships tick and where they falter.

What excites and inspires me most? It’s helping readers see opportunities for love that go beyond the surface. So many of us think love means finding someone who checks every box. But if anything, writing—and living through my own experiences—has taught me that the best love makes room for your quirks. Your high-pitched laugh in the middle of brunch? Keep it. Those dreams you have of turning a side hustle into a full-time gig? A good relationship fanboys for that.

I can still remember the first piece I wrote that went viral. It was a short column about what my dad taught me while helping my mom through a difficult recovery period. It wasn’t glamorized grand gestures—it was swapping roles for a bit and letting her rest while he did everything from meal prep to plaiting her hair. People shared the article with captions like, “This is the kind of love I want.” No filter, no fairy tale—just two people genuinely showing up for each other. That’s when I realized this was it. This was the work I wanted to do.

Lessons You Can Carry

While chasing love is its own wild ride, here’s what I know to be true after years of reflecting, interviewing, and writing:

  • Sweep Your Own Porch First.
    My grandma’s wisdom strikes again. Love yourself, respect yourself, and pour into yourself before expecting anyone else to do it for you. A relationship can’t save you—it should only amplify the foundation you’ve already built.

  • Leave Space for Joy.
    The best relationships I’ve witnessed have an undercurrent of laughter. Never stop flirting and finding moments of playfulness. Relationships need joy, just as Charleston marshes need a tide.

  • Repeat After Me: Boundaries Aren’t Mean.
    Setting boundaries in love is like letting a dough rest—it makes for a better result. Healthy expectations and limits create space for genuine intimacy.

A Journey Worth Taking

So here I am—a storyteller who went from observing historic Charleston porches to writing about connection in all its forms. And while I could have pursued a million paths, I’m grateful to be here, walking this one. Because relationships—whether romantic, familial, or with yourself—are worth celebrating, interrogating, and cherishing.

Love doesn’t have a fixed definition or one-size-fits-all approach. Instead, it’s like a patchwork quilt of experiences that come together for warmth and beauty. And maybe that’s why I keep writing about it, trying to stitch together pieces that make sense. Just remember, your apron strings are yours to hold—but they’ll only become stronger when stitched with care, kindness, and understanding for yourself and others. If my path has taught me one thing, it’s that we’re all creating love stories. So make sure yours is one for the books.