Somewhere between the porch swings of my childhood and the long stretches of Alabama backroads I’ve driven, I learned a thing or two about connection. Maybe it’s the Southern air—thick with magnolia blooms and stories untold—or maybe it’s the way my mama’s smile could make a stranger feel like family. Either way, I’ve always believed in people. I believe in the threads that tie us together, and the way we sew meaning into every laugh, touch, and handwritten note. When it comes to relationships—romantic, friendly, familial—it’s these core beliefs that guide me.

The Beauty of Showing Up

Let’s get one thing straight: connection doesn’t come from perfection; it comes from presence. A hot take in the age of FaceTune, I know. I’ll never forget my first serious breakup in college. We decided to have The Talk at a coffee shop, the kind with mugs too big for your hands and sad music playing softly. I arrived with the intention of angling for the high ground—somehow both stoic and unshaken, like a Reese Witherspoon character in a rom-com.

Instead, I cried into my latte. Snotty, embarrassing crying. Blubbering through sentences like, “I just wanted us to hike more!” (I don’t even like hiking). But you know what? I showed up. I let myself feel all of it: the heartbreak, the humiliation, the ridiculous realization that I’d exaggerated a personality trait for months because I wanted us to work. If I learned anything, it’s this: love asks you to be present in all of your messiness, not perform like you’ve already got it figured out.

Life is not about always being polished; it’s about being real. Whether you’re mending a relationship or putting yourself out there for the first time since 2016 (thanks for that Taylor Swift reference, Midnights album), what matters most is showing up authentically. This belief colors how I write, too—unfiltered, present, and yes, occasionally a little teary-eyed.

Stories Matter More Than Snapchat Streaks

My family’s history is Southern through and through. Over endless chicken casseroles and pecan pies, our stories get passed down, polished like heirloom silver. Sitting at that table, I learned something powerful: the strongest bonds are built on the stories we share, not the snapshots we curate.

Modern dating flips this narrative on its head. We’ve been tricked into thinking that connection is fast and shiny, like swiping on Tinder while standing in line for coffee. But let’s take a breath, y’all. Connection doesn’t happen in the swipe. It happens in the narrative, in the way we make sense of where someone’s been and the way they light up talking about what’s next.

A mentor of mine back in Tuscaloosa had a saying during my oral history days: “Ask people where they’re from, and you’ll learn where they hope they’re going.” When we focus on understanding the moments and legacies that shape someone, we build better, more meaningful relationships. Relationships that last longer than an Instagram archive.

So, when I write, I think about the stories we carry with us—not just the ones that make us pretty or palatable, but the messy, untidy threads too. Let's get honest about who we are instead of just curating a highlight reel.

Empathy Isn’t Weakness

Here’s another thing I stand for that gets me in trouble in the comments section: Empathy is the bedrock of connection. Look, I know this isn’t a hot take for most of you, but stick with me for a second.

The thing about empathy is that it requires stepping outside your experience, and, as a white woman who grew up in the complexities of Montgomery, that lesson came early. My work as an archivist taught me how much we miss when we tell a story from just one angle. Conversations about race, identity, or gender aren’t things you “win” like prizes at the county fair (though bless that vintage ring toss). They’re acts of listening, reflection, and yes, sometimes shutting up long enough to truly hear someone.

Dating isn’t much different. Relationships thrive when you’re willing to ask your partner, “Help me understand,” instead of charging in with assumptions. That goes for the big stuff, like family dynamics, and the smaller quirks too—why they refuse to mix their foods on the plate, for instance (seriously, why though?). Empathy doesn’t mean excusing bad behaviors or being a doormat; it means effort. It’s a practice, not a platitude.

The result? Better relationships—whether it’s with a partner, friend, or your coworker who insists on calling it "guac" but refuses to split the appetizer.

Let Joy Be A Compass

When did dating become so grim? Scrolling through dating advice these days feels like waging war. You have to "win" the breakup, master the "power dynamics," and "prove your worth." Y’all, where’s the joy in all of this? Relationships already come with enough challenges—no need to pile on exhaustive strategies like it’s a corporate retreat.

A few years ago, while interviewing townsfolk in a sleepy spot near Selma, I met an older couple who had been married 54 years. They were sitting on their porch swing (of course), laughing about their overcooked biscuits and a particularly aggressive raccoon. I asked them the secret to their longevity, and the man said with a grin, “Well, if you can laugh during the biscuit disasters, you can laugh through most anything.”

Mind you, I’m not suggesting humor is a substitute for conflict resolution, but I think they were on to something. Just like in life, joy in relationships isn’t always headline-grabbing. It’s small and steady—a quiet foundation, not a grand gesture. Sometimes, it’s a shared joke over burnt toast. Sometimes, it’s dancing in the kitchen even after a fight. The best partnerships keep humor in the trunk with the spare tire, ready to dig out when things get flat.

In love and life, we’re allowed to pursue what lights us up. Joy isn’t naïve; it’s vital. The same goes for writing: lightness paves the way for vulnerability, imagination, and connection. A spoonful of humor can make even the heaviest conversation feel manageable.

The Takeaway

Here’s what I’ve come to know: relationships—whether romantic or not—are about balance. Balance between authenticity and vulnerability. Between storytelling and listening. Between lighthearted laughter and the work of empathy. Writing about love lets me lean into this tightrope walk with all the humanity it deserves.

Life is messy—bless it—but the mess is what binds us together. And whether it’s crying into a latte post-breakup or learning to appreciate the quirks that make someone tick, we’re all in this together. My hope is that my words keep you company along the way, reminding you to lean into your story, show up fully, and chase joy wherever you find it.

From flirt to familiar, remember this: you’re more lovable than you think, even when you’re a snotty mess over a latte. Keep your heart open, y’all. It’s where the magic lives.