Some books find you exactly when you need them. They sit quietly on a shelf, just waiting for you to wander by at the perfect moment, pick them up, and have your world tilted on its axis. For me, that book was Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston.
I first stumbled across it during my junior year at Auburn University. I was neck-deep in Southern Studies coursework, up to my ears in academic essays about cultural mythologies and regional complexities—all beautiful things, but let’s just say none of them had me feeling particularly swoony. My days felt like an endless buffet of footnotes and term papers, and though I loved my path, I was tired, uninspired, and emotionally… well, flat. That was when Janie Crawford, the bold, messy, fiercely independent heroine of Hurston’s novel, came swaggering into my life with her sharp wit and even sharper survival instincts. And when I tell you she changed everything, I’m not exaggerating.
The Art of Choosing Yourself
Janie’s story is a love story—but not in the way you’d expect. Sure, there are the sweep-you-off-your-feet romances, the bitter heartbreaks, and the messy entanglements we all know (too well, in some cases). But for Janie, the ultimate love story wasn’t about a partner. It was about learning to fall in love with herself—and stay in love with herself.
The girl starts out believing love is something prescribed, like a one-size-fits-all dress you’re expected to wear without asking questions. But after suffering through relationships that felt more like life sentences, she dared to ask: What if the dress doesn’t fit? What if I don’t even like the damn dress? And whew, did that hit me like a gospel choir’s crescendo.
At the time, I had just broken off the kind of situationship we all know too well—the one where they’re emotionally unavailable but somehow available enough to text you at midnight. (Seriously, who decided breadcrumbing was a valid communication style?) I was stuck in my own loop of shrinking myself down to fit into the version of “love” I thought I was supposed to have. But Janie? Janie showed me that sometimes, the most revolutionary thing you can do is rewrite the whole script.
Key takeaway: If it doesn’t fit—be it a relationship, a job, or even an idea of yourself—don’t force it. Let it go, and make space for what truly aligns with who you are.
The Courage to Let Things End
One of the most profound aspects of Janie’s journey was her willingness to walk away. When love turned sour, she didn’t grit her teeth and soldier on for the sake of appearances or because she was scared of starting over. She left. She burned bridges when they needed burning—and let me tell you, sometimes Ash Wednesday comes early, and the fire you’re lighting isn’t about penance but freedom.
Her courage echoed in the back of my mind years later when I found myself sitting in the parking lot of a Montgomery coffee shop, working up the nerve to end a two-year relationship that had long since expired. It wasn’t toxic—not in the soap-opera way people always expect—but it wasn’t good either. It was comfortable, like an old sweater you outgrew but kept wearing because it was familiar. Janie’s story reminded me that staying for the sake of staying is the opposite of bravery. I wish I could tell you I walked into that breakup all stoic and self-assured like a rom-com heroine, but there were messy tears involved (mine), some awkward silence (his), and a very dramatic exit involving a cappuccino I didn’t finish. Still, I left—and I’ve never once regretted it.
Actionable advice: If you’re staying in any situation out of fear, it might be time to reassess. Fear isn’t love, safety, or comfort—it’s inertia. And if Janie taught me one thing, it’s that clinging to inertia shortchanges your potential for real joy.
Speaking Your Truth, Even When It Scares You
There’s one passage in Their Eyes Were Watching God that has lived rent-free in my soul ever since I first read it. It’s where Hurston writes: “There are years that ask questions and years that answer.” Y’all, if that doesn’t sum up life, I don’t know what does. Janie never stopped asking questions—about herself, her desires, and what she deserved from love and life. And when the answers weren’t pretty or easy, she faced them anyway.
This lesson struck me years later while teaching a creative writing workshop at the local community college. One of my (husband-aged yet hilarious) students asked why all my stories sounded like one long apology. I think he meant it as a compliment, but to me, it stung—it was too close to the truth I hadn’t wanted to face. I realized I’d been dimming my voice in an attempt to make my work “likable,” both in my fiction and in my relationships. But Janie didn’t live her life to people-please, and neither should I—or you.
Practical tip: Speaking your truth doesn’t require an audience or a mic. Some of the most important truths you’ll ever speak are the ones you tell to yourself in a private moment of honesty. Start there, and the rest will follow.
What Janie Taught Me About Romance (and Beyond)
It’d be easy to read Their Eyes Were Watching God as a cautionary tale about the perils of love, but that’d be missing the point. Love wasn’t what broke Janie down—it’s what built her up. Through every heartbreak, she learned more about what she wanted and, perhaps more importantly, what she couldn’t (and wouldn’t) accept. Life didn’t always hand her roses, but she sure learned how to plant her own garden. And isn’t that what love should do—whether it’s with yourself, a partner, or even your friends? Shouldn’t it teach you to trust your voice, even as it evolves?
The Legacy of Janie Crawford
By the time I reached the final pages of the book, tears streaked my face like I’d been watching a This Is Us finale while chopping onions. (No shame—Waterworks Carrie is my alter ego.) But those tears weren’t all from sadness. They came from a deep recognition of Janie’s triumph, her refusal to compromise herself, and her courage in embracing love in all its messy, beautiful, and imperfect forms.
Now, when I look back at the many twists and turns of my own romantic life—from first crushes under Alabama sunsets to the grand love stories that fizzled into friendships—I keep coming back to what Janie taught me: It’s not about getting it “right.” It’s about staying true to yourself, even as you stumble, fall, and occasionally ugly-cry into your pillow. Because love, like life, is a journey meant to be lived, not perfected.
So here’s to every woman searching for her voice, every man learning to walk away, and every person brave enough to love again and again. Take it from Janie Crawford—and from me—it’s never too late to rewrite your story.
