Have you ever walked into a room, absolutely convinced you were in the wrong place, only to realize—eventually—you were right where you needed to be? That’s how I felt about my chosen path. Not just once, mind you, but many times over. Like a frantic tourist circling Savannah’s cobblestone streets trying to find the nearest praline shop, I’ve second-guessed myself more than a few times. Yet, every twist, every detour, has brought me closer to a truth I wouldn’t trade for all the historic porches in Georgia.
So, why did I choose this path of writing about love, connection, and everything in between? Maybe it was inevitable for someone who grew up in a house filled with old piano melodies, pointed archways, and stories wafting through like sweet tea in the summer heat. But really, it comes down to this—I believe in people. And I believe in their stories.
The Southern Foundations of Love
When you grow up in the South, you learn from an early age that every house, every tree, every family heirloom passed down through generations has a story. Some are triumphant, some are tragedies, and some—well, some are more tangled than a Lowcountry marsh.
My parents were my first example of what it looks like to love something deeply. My father’s devotion to preserving Savannah’s old mansions wasn’t about vanity or nostalgia; it was about respecting the intricate lives that once filled those walls. My mother, in her quiet discipline at the piano, reminded me that beauty comes when you practice care—whether it’s with notes on a staff or with people you love.
Relationships often feel like living in one of those old homes. Beautiful, yes, but occasionally creaky and challenging to maintain. The trick is recognizing when something needs tending and not being afraid to roll up your sleeves. My upbringing taught me that real love—like good architecture—is built to last, with just a little repair work here and there.
How Hemlocks and Heartstrings Meet
This love of storytelling started with a question my dad asked nearly every weekend growing up: “Do you know the story behind that house?” Without fail, he’d point out some fading mansion nestled beneath sprawling hemlocks, and I’d lean closer to hear the secrets hiding in its structure.
Years later, this childhood curiosity morphed into a more personal exploration—about people, about places, about what makes us connect. I started asking different questions: “Why do we invest so much in leaning into someone’s life? How do fragile moments between two people blossom into something strong enough to weather storms?”
What I learned is that relationships and Southern architecture both require foundations that run deeper than what you can see. Historic homes might have balconies that sag or paint that flakes, but it’s what lies underneath—timbers strong enough to endure decades of weather—that makes them endure. It’s the same with people.
When Storytelling Became My Compass
After college, I traded Savannah’s antebellum mansions for academics up in Atlanta and Athens. In many ways, venturing out of my familiar bubble of Spanish moss and Gothic novels was like dating for the first time: I was awkward, unsure what “looked good,” and prone to idolizing things that weren’t necessarily good for me (no shade, frat parties). But it was also thrilling—a reminder that you can love what’s familiar but still pursue the unknown.
Post-graduation, I found myself guiding wide-eyed tourists through the historic homes of Savannah. I loved pulling them into stories: “Imagine this house in 1872, the gas lights flickering during a ball,” or “In this very room, a woman once played piano every afternoon to soothe her heartache.” I suppose you could say I was flirting with storytelling back then—just a little fling—but somewhere along the way, I fell into a lasting relationship with it.
What’s funny is that I didn’t start out thinking I’d write about relationships for a living. My first essays were about family heirlooms and fading family portraits. Then, a poignant love story I wrote about a couple who restored a crumbling Victorian found its way to the editor’s desk of a local magazine. By the time my debut novel rolled around—a swirling tale of love, identity, and belonging—something clicked. The kinds of connections I wanted to explore were not just the familial or historical ones, but the ones between two people trying to build something real and enduring.
Why This Path Makes Me Feel at Home
Love is, quite frankly, what makes the world complicated and delightful and worth exploring. It’s sticky and dynamic, graceful and frustrating all at once. It’s like humidity in Savannah—no matter where you go, you feel it hanging in the air. And as someone who spent countless afternoons sipping mint juleps (okay, sweet tea) on wraparound porches watching family members rehash their calamities, I relish the art of navigating relationships—even the messy ones.
Here’s the thing. I don’t write to hand out perfect formulas or foolproof tips for building lasting connections. I write to reassure people that the creaky parts of life and love are not only normal but often where the best material lies. Would I prefer people connect all their dots seamlessly, like a well-preserved antebellum floor plan? Sure. But let’s be honest—sometimes, relationships are more like a staircase built slightly off-kilter. And that’s okay because the human heart was never meant to be symmetrical, anyway.
Anchoring Romance in Reality
If there’s one thing I carry with me from my upbringing, it’s this: romance isn’t just candlelit dinners or moonlit strolls (though I highly recommend both if you happen to be walking Charleston’s Battery at dusk). It’s in offering someone the courage to be themselves. It’s in navigating everyday banalities—figuring out how to budget, how to forgive, and how to laugh through burnt dinners.
As a writer, my job serves as a reminder to myself and others that there’s value in embrace—not perfection. Whether through the sweeping drama of a Southern Gothic slow-burn or the everyday banter of a couple deciding whose turn it is to empty the dishwasher, moments of truth reside in the in-between spaces.
Closing Thoughts on Paths (And Finding Your Own)
Would my younger self have believed this would be my path? Probably not. She was too swept up studying Flannery O’Connor’s biting prose and mooning over dark-eyed villains in 1950s romance films to picture herself here. Honestly, though, I wouldn’t trade my path for anything—not the detours, not the rough patches, not even the occasional skepticism about my “plan.”
If you’re sitting there wondering whether the path you’re walking makes sense, let me leave you with this: it doesn’t have to. Sometimes it’s enough to keep asking questions, following threads, and letting curiosity guide you. Take the scenic route. Pause by the overgrown garden. Peer through the cracked windows of the empty house.
You might just find yourself at home.
