Growing up, my family always said I had storytelling in my blood. Maybe it’s because I used to sit cross-legged in our living room, captivated by my dad’s tales from the road as a guitarist in his country band. Or maybe it’s from watching my mom somehow weave lessons about tempo and melody into dinnertime chats. Either way, I think it’s safe to say I was born into a rhythm of connection—of seeing how people’s lives and loves intertwine like the verses of a song.

I didn’t know it at the time, but those stories, those moments of laughter and reflection, would become the blueprint for my own life’s melody. Writing about relationships—whether it’s the thrill of a first flirtation, the slow burn of commitment, or the crossroads of heartbreak—feels like the perfect harmony between what I love and how I grew up.

Let me tell you why I chose to write about this—about the messy, magical, oh-so-human business of dating and relationships. If you’ve ever been serenaded by a bad karaoke rendition of “Jolene” while holding back an “it’s not you, it’s me” breakup text, then you’re exactly who I write for. You’re my people.

A Spark, A Song, and A Swift Left Turn

Initially, I thought I’d follow my family’s music-first legacy. Attending a performing arts high school felt like destiny. I spent years trying to perfect my vibrato and testing different stage personas that all ultimately made me look like a backup singer for Fleetwood Mac. But something was missing; I felt like I was lip-syncing my way through life. I loved the sound of a song, sure, but what I really loved? The stories behind it. The why. The heartache that fuels the lyrics.

So, I switched gears and jotted down words that refused to rhyme. Prose felt messier, freer—a way to explain things like attraction and loss when a three-minute melody just didn’t cut it. I started writing short stories steeped in warm, Southern vibes and heartbreak so universal, even my mom would set her wine glass down and nod while reading them. Bit by bit, it clicked: we connect best through what’s real. Authentic. Imperfect.

When I realized that these same principles mattered in dating just as much as they did in storytelling, I knew I had found my niche. That’s how I ended up here, piecing together the mixtape of modern love with words instead of chords.

Dating Is Basically a Duet

Love isn’t a solo act, no matter how much entering a crowded bar alone feels like one. Relationships—whether they’re barely-there flirtations or ten-year sagas—are where people harmonize their quirks, ambitions, and preferences. Sometimes you nail it, like the “Shallow” duet between Bradley Cooper and Lady Gaga. Other times, it’s an awkward karaoke rendition with someone who clearly has no idea what the harmony is.

What I love most about writing in this space is that it’s endlessly relatable. We’ve all weathered cringe-worthy first dates and awkwardly long text ellipses. My personal low? Agreeing to see a guy’s “cat collection” on date two. Spoiler alert: the cats were imaginary, but his snake terrarium was very real. Y’all, I left that date faster than Taylor Swift drops an album hint.

Still, there’s beauty in those wildly imperfect moments. They’re where we learn about ourselves and what we want—or in this case, that I’m firmly Team Mammal. My job as a writer isn’t to tell you to dodge the snake guys (though you should) but to help you find clarity within your own duet. To help you laugh a little, cry if you need to, and keep going when things get rocky.

Stories That Stick

At the heart of it, writing about relationships takes me back to my Nashville roots: small, real, unassuming moments that ripple with meaning. Like how my parents still dance around the kitchen to George Jones when it’s raining, even though my mom always complains that my dad’s two-step is a half-step behind. Those glimpses of connection—the little things—are what make love stories worth exploring.

And if you think about it, relationships are just stories we write in real-time. Each date adds a new sentence. Each heartbreak tears out a page, or five, when your attempts to patch things don’t hold. But here’s the good news: every ending is just an intro to the next chapter. Life, unlike storytelling, doesn’t stop at the last word.

Why This Work Matters

People often ask, “Why relationships?” It’s not as glamorous as writing thrillers or as universally celebrated as penning the next great American novel. But here’s the thing: when we get better at relationships—romantic or otherwise—we get better at everything else. Our confidence grows. Our communities thrive. We crack ourselves open to joy, even when we’re certain it doesn’t want us back.

Yes, it’s messy and complicated and will occasionally make you want to scream into a pillow during Taylor Swift’s entire Red album. But it’s also worth it. Writing about connections centers people in their beautiful complexity, something I can’t resist.

From friends figuring out what love means over too many margaritas to the strangers swapping numbers under Broadway’s neon lights, I am endlessly inspired by how people choose to relate to one another—even when it’s messy. Maybe especially when it’s messy.

One Last Thing

So, if you’re wondering why I do what I do, it’s simple: because we all need someone to step in and say, “Hey, you’re not doing this alone.” That friend who nudges you to put yourself out there again after a big breakup? Or reminds you that sometimes love looks like dancing in an offbeat, rain-soaked kitchen? My hope is that my writing feels like that friend.

Because whether you’re scribbling your own love story in pencil, pen, or probably the Notes app on your phone, one thing’s for sure: the melody of connection keeps playing. And somewhere, deep down, we’re all just trying to find the harmony.