I Grew Up In a Village Made of Love (But I Still Had to Learn How to Love Myself First)

You know those moments in rom-coms when the protagonist swears off all relationships after a particularly bad breakup, only to run smack into their future soulmate while spilling pumpkin spice latte all over them? Yeah, I never had one of those moments. What I did have, though, was a childhood spent surrounded by storytellers who taught me that love isn’t about grand gestures or dramatic meet-cutes. It’s about showing up—day after day—whether that’s for your family, your partner, or, as I’ve had to learn, yourself.

They also didn’t warn me how hard my dating life would be once I left my tiny home on the Navajo Nation and stepped into the wild tundra of modern romance. Spoiler: I didn’t spill a latte on anyone, but I did inadvertently ghost a guy once because I had no idea how Wi-Fi worked back then (he still thinks I stood him up—sorry, Derek). So yeah, by "learning how to love myself," I mean I had to grow up, fumble a lot, and figure out how my values inform the way I show up for love.

Let me tell you—it’s a wild, winding road. Here’s what I discovered along the way.

Love Isn’t What You Say, It’s What You Do

Growing up, everyone I loved existed in tactile, tangible ways. Love was my grandmother braiding my hair by the fire at night, her fingers working through the same patterns her mother taught her. It was my cousins teasing me mercilessly until they made me laugh-cry, then launching into jokes until we forgot what started it all. No one sat me down and said, “This is how you know someone loves you,” because it was lived, not explained.

But when I moved out East, I realized the rest of the world doesn’t always work that way. Words stretched farther. Promises came easier. And sometimes, people didn’t show up when they said they would. I’m not trying to be cynical—it’s just that many people have learned to say love before learning how to show it. And it’s not wholly their fault; we live in a world where love lives in text bubbles, not braided hair.

I learned the hard way that showing up means more than hitting “like” on someone’s Instagram post. When I started dating someone seriously for the first time, I would over-commit to small gestures desperately trying to “prove” my love (handwritten notes, homemade Navajo fry bread—all the classics). But I overdid it to the point of burnout, promising him everything without taking care of myself. And guess what? The love I was giving him wasn’t sustainable—because it wasn’t rooted in who I was.

Now, I ask myself: Did my actions make me proud? Did I honor my boundaries while honoring theirs? Relationships aren’t performance art; they’re slow, intentional steps toward connection.

Before You Date Someone Else, Date Yourself

Sit tight; this might sound like generic “put on a face mask and call it self-love” advice, but hear me out. Loving yourself takes humor—and that comes from acknowledging what makes you human.

When I was younger, I was paralyzed by dating. I thought I needed to look, act, and speak “perfectly” to attract people. Let me tell you—it’s hard to be authentic when you’re trying to sound like a poetic aphorism generator on a potential boyfriend’s voicemail (“Hello, um, Hi... Yes, this is, uh, me, as... constellations would say?? Call me back!”). I became so wound up in trying to impress other people that, somewhere along the way, I stopped impressing myself.

And then, one autumn, back in Vermont on a solo hike (cue the moody indie music), I accidentally ate a handful of wild chokecherries, mistaking them for huckleberries. I spent the next hour both swearing I was poisoned and laughing at how hilariously me this was. That single experience taught me more than years of self-help books had: I didn’t need to strive for postcard-perfect. I just needed to work with who I already was.

So, when they tell you to love yourself, they’re really saying: Get awkward. Get messy. Own your quirks without letting people convince you they’re flaws. For me? That’s learning to laugh at my underwhelming dance moves or understanding that my habit of quoting Louise Erdrich novels during dinner doesn’t make me unapproachable (just slightly extra). Owning myself made me love without apology—and that version of love attracts people who care about the real you.

Tradition Guides Us, but We Write Our Own Stories

When you grow up in a community like mine, you learn to see relationships as part of a continuum. Partnerships aren’t “start here, end there.” Instead, they’re lived as long strands of connection—woven together, layer by layer, sometimes loosely, sometimes bound close.

But as much as I draw strength from this mindset, I’ve also learned to embrace the fact that my story doesn’t need to follow a script someone else imagined. People love to tell young women what they should or shouldn’t want. Be maternal but ambitious. Be grounded but adventurous. Basically, be a walking contradiction.

Being raised in a tight-knit family equipped me with the tools to understand community, but love isn’t just about how you fit into existing traditions. Sometimes, it’s about carving out your own path in the chaos. For me, that’s meant sidestepping questions like, “When are you going to settle down?” and understanding that my timeline is inherently my own.

I always laugh at the moments where people try to map out their romantic trajectory: first dates, anniversaries, the infamous “when will we have kids” conversation, early retirement together, etc. But here’s the thing—there isn’t a finish line in love. If you stumble along the way, that just means you’re moving forward.

Love Is Rooted in Resilience

Ever tried explaining dating woes to your 94-year-old grandmother? It’s humbling. You’re halfway through whining about a guy who stopped texting you back when she nods and interrupts with something like, “The sheep have been acting funny lately—it means a storm’s coming.”

Her ability to shrug boy drama into irrelevance has always amazed me. But there’s wisdom in her perspective. She grew up through unimaginable challenges—displacement, poverty, cultural erasure—and yet, here she is, finding joy in mutton stew, family stories, and knitting wool. For her, love was never about avoiding pain. It was about surviving it.

Modern dating involves its fair share of heartbreaks, and for a while, I treated each romantic failure like a fatal flaw: "Why didn’t it work out?" But I’ve learned breakups aren’t evidence of failure; they’re proof that you’re moving closer to what aligns with you. Instead of sinking into my sadness, I remind myself that resilience runs through my veins, no different than the women before me.

The Takeaway: Love, Laugh, Repeat

At the end of the day, my beliefs about love boil down to this: No one is born knowing how to love perfectly. It’s a process, one built on effort, curiosity, and a little humor.

This is where I stand: Be honest. Laugh at your ridiculousness. Keep one foot in tradition and one foot in the unknown. Let your actions match your intentions. And don’t be afraid to write your story across the scatterplot of life—messy, surprising, maybe even awkwardly eating wild chokecherries along the way.

Love won’t mimic any movie you’ve ever seen, and it shouldn’t have to. Because when you stand up for yourself—with all your quirks and brilliance intact—you’ll attract the kind of relationships (and adventures) worth showing up for.