Why Choosing Connection Is an Adventure Worth Taking

Introduction: The Path We All Walk
Everyone loves a good “how I got here” story. Usually, it starts with some big turning point – a defining moment when the stars aligned, the clouds parted, and suddenly everything just made sense. Mine isn’t quite that tidy. If anything, my story is a collection of small breadcrumbs, each leading me further down the trail I didn’t even know I was meant to follow. Growing up surrounded by the rugged beauty of Boulder, Colorado, I learned early that paths aren’t always paved—and that the best journeys, whether in the mountains or in relationships, often require a bit of trial, error, and a willingness to get messy.

When it comes to my love of writing about dating and relationships, you might think, “What does a guy who spent half his life identifying bird calls and eco-mapping streams know about love?” Fair question. Turns out, the lessons I learned wandering among junipers and picking sand out of my boots translate surprisingly well to the wild forests of the human heart. Relationships—even the tough ones—have a way of pulling us closer to the core of who we are. In that way, they’re no different than standing on a summit and realizing how far you’ve come to get there.

1. Charting the Unknown
As a kid, I hiked before I walked—or at least that’s what my parents love to point out, usually at family gatherings and always through laughter. Weekends meant exploring twisting paths in the Flatirons or counting stars on a stubbornly cold autumn night. My mom would pack trail mix (heavy on the M&M’s) and talk about “big-picture” stuff like ecosystems and interconnectedness while I tried to convince myself that wildlife probably wasn’t stalking me.

What hiking taught me (besides how to wrangle a blister) was how to lean into the unknown. Each new hike—or later, any life decision—carried its own risks. What would the weather do? Would you pick the wrong trailhead and end up in marshy chaos? You could plan like crazy, but some things you just had to figure out as they happened.

Relationships, let me tell you, work much the same way. When I first started dating, I learned pretty quickly that no amount of overanalyzing what to wear or practicing clever jokes in front of a mirror could guarantee smooth sailing. You don’t know how someone will react to your love of obscure indie bands or your allergy to cats. You can’t predict the terrain. All you can do is show up, stay curious, and go from there.

2. The Leave-No-Trace Rule Applies to People, Too
One principle drilled into me from my years in the woods was Leave No Trace—take only memories and leave everything better than you found it. In the backcountry, that means no trash, no stray campfire embers, and certainly no rogue snack wrappers tumbling down a gorge. But the older I got, the more I realized this philosophy worked pretty well in my personal life, too.

I let this principle guide me when I started writing seriously about relationships. People’s hearts, vulnerabilities, and stories—these are sacred spaces. Listening and writing about connections have taught me how important it is to approach with respect. It’s easy to get swept up, to rush things, or to leave someone’s metaphorical campsite in emotional disarray. Relationships, at their core, aren’t about possession or extraction. They’re about co-creation: building something together, growing without scorching the earth beneath you.

I remind myself—and my readers—that how we treat each other, even in fleeting encounters, leaves a mark. Saying goodbye doesn’t have to come with bitterness. Loving someone can be its own reward, even if the relationship doesn’t last. Leaving no trace, it turns out, isn’t just good trail etiquette—it’s good life etiquette, too.

3. Finding Your People in the Winding Valleys
In the realm of hiking buddies and romantic partners alike, I’ve learned the importance of picking the right people to walk alongside you. You don’t want someone who’s going to bail at the first sight of rain or roll their eyes when you break out your nerdy birdwatching binoculars. Relationships are about riding out the storm clouds, shouldering extra gear when needed, and pausing to marvel at the improbable beauty of a double rainbow (yes, that happens, and yes, I’ve cried over it).

That said, the best hikers—and partners—are the ones tethered to their own sense of purpose. While compatibility is important, a true connection thrives when both people bring their authentic selves to the table. Let’s face it: pretending to be something you’re not—whether that means donning a metaphorical cape of “cool aloofness” or freaking out because you hate sharing control of the map—doesn’t work.

No one wants to be halfway up a mountain, stuck with someone who’s been faking their enthusiasm the whole way. Trust me, it’s exhausting for everyone.

4. Learn to Love the Process, Not Just the Summit
When my dad and I hiked fourteeners (mountain peaks over 14,000 feet, for the non-Colorans), I used to get hyper-focused on the top. Every step felt like a painful, sweaty means to an end. My dad would chuckle knowingly and always tell me, “The top will be there. You’re only here for the time in between. Don’t miss it.”

I didn’t get what he meant until much later—honestly, probably not until my first real relationship ended. There’s this huge emphasis in dating culture on “where it’s going.” Are we exclusive? Will we move in together? Put a ring on it? And while those milestones can be beautiful, they shouldn’t overshadow the beauty of the now.

Some of my favorite memories of dating aren’t tied to grand gestures or big commitments—they live in the small things. Like laughing until we cried while trying to make pancakes on a camping stove. Or that one road trip where we got lost and found the best diner pie any human has ever eaten. Those fleeting, imperfect moments count just as much as the big ones. Sometimes more.

Conclusion: The Adventure Never Ends
Perhaps the greatest thing I’ve learned from my mountain trails and my relationship trails is that no journey’s ever really over. Each step, failure, or heartbreak is part of something bigger. I don’t regret the rough patches—neither the awkward first dates nor the breakups that left me feeling unmoored. They’ve all taught me something, shaping me into someone better suited to keep walking, keep exploring.

If you’re reading this while standing at the trailhead of love, unsure whether to begin, I encourage you: lace up your metaphorical boots and take the first step. Yeah, there’ll be bad weather and wrong turns, but there’s also joy, wonder, and connection waiting for you. Your path doesn’t have to be perfect—it just has to be yours. And I promise, it’s worth the hike.