The Place That Made Me

There’s a particular shade of grey in Vancouver that you can’t quite describe—you don’t just see it, you feel it. It wraps around you like a fleece blanket fresh from the dryer, soft but heavy. It’s the kind of grey that makes the smell of rain-soaked cedar hit a little harder, the fog on Burrard Inlet linger a little longer. It’s not dramatic or moody like London fog, nor is it the washed-out melancholy of a Scandinavian winter. No, Vancouver grey is subtle. Persistent. Comforting, even. And for better or worse, it’s been the backdrop of every significant relationship in my life.

Growing up in Kitsilano, affectionately dubbed “Kits,” I spent most of my weekends either dodging frisbees at Kits Beach or sipping oat milk lattes at small cafés that tried very hard to look like they weren’t trying at all. And while my parents ran a bustling café on Broadway where the smell of freshly baked pineapple buns mingled with the hiss of steamed milk, I was busy navigating the uncharted waters of teenage crushes and first relationships. Any budding romance inevitably made its way to Jericho Beach, where awkward hand-holding became infinitely more awkward thanks to wet sand and rogue seagulls.

Vancouver, in all its misty, mountain-framed glory, shaped how I approach love—and life—in more ways than I’d realized.

The Skyline of Subtlety

Here’s the thing about Vancouverites: we’re not flashy, and neither is our city. There’s no Empire State Building to Instagram against, no glittering Eiffel Tower to light up the night. Instead, we have mountains looming large on the horizon and beaches that melt into the city like they just showed up uninvited to a party but somehow fit right in. That same quiet, unassuming charm snuck its way into how I approach relationships.

Somewhere along the way, I learned that love doesn’t have to announce itself loudly. It might not arrive with fireworks, roses, and a Ryan Gosling “Hey Girl” moment. Instead, it might look like sharing a poutine on Commercial Drive, where you argue about whether it’s “authentic” because the gravy tastes a little different. (For the record, it wasn’t, but we still ate every last fry.) Or an evening paddleboarding at English Bay that turned competitive because someone decided we both needed to “train like Olympic athletes.”

Love, I realized, is in the little things: the weekday “how was your day?” texts, the shared playlists where you endure their weird indie picks because your guilty pleasure pop songs are equally cringe-worthy, or the way they somehow remember your coffee order even though you forget it half the time.

Lessons from the Rain

If you can survive Vancouver winters, you can survive most things. Truly. While other cities have snowflakes and sunshine, we get… rain. Days of it. Weeks, even. Sometimes, you’ll wake up and forget what the sky looks like without clouds. Living in this kind of weather teaches you patience—and resilience.

Relationships, I’ve learned, are a lot like Vancouver winters. Not every day has to be sunshine, and not every moment will involve dramatic declarations of affection. Some days, you’ll have to trudge through the mundane, where your only plans involve Netflix reruns and a bulk-bin bag of Smarties because no one felt like cooking.

The rain also teaches you how to find joy even when things aren’t picture-perfect. You learn to push through. To show up. Just like how you show up for a partner even when the excitement wears off and familiarity sets in. It’s in the rainy-day moments—when things are comfortably imperfect—that love feels its most real.

The People That Color the Place

In Vancouver, diversity isn’t just a statistic; it’s a lived experience. Walking into my parents’ café, you’d hear Cantonese drifting from the kitchen, Farsi from the corner table, and someone debating in Spanish whether the matcha latte was worth the hype. Vancouver doesn’t ask you to assimilate; it invites you to add to the fabric. That openness shaped how I approach connections—not just in love but in all relationships.

I’ve learned to lean into curiosity and embrace differences, whether it’s the way someone pronounces “almond” (ah-mond versus al-mond is still up for debate) or how their family’s holiday traditions look totally different from mine. With every relationship, I’ve taken away little pieces of culture and connection—new ways of seeing the world, of listening, of loving.

This openness once played out in a relationship I had with someone who’d just moved from Melbourne (which, funnily enough, I also called home for a while during my exchange year). We had full-blown debates about the pronunciation of “project” (he said prah-ject; I insisted on pro-ject), and he couldn’t wrap his head around why I loved Tim Hortons double-doubles when Melbourne coffee shops were “objectively superior.” Our love wasn’t without its cultural clashes, but it worked because we did.

The Breakups That Built Me

Of course, not all of my connections worked out, and Vancouver was there for those moments, too. A heartbreak once left me sobbing on the seawall—an experience I can’t recommend but will begrudgingly admit feels cinematic in hindsight. There’s no breakup manual, but if there were, Vancouver would probably offer the following steps:

  1. Cry it out, preferably into a pillow that somehow smells like cedar.
  2. Take a solo hike up Grouse Grind—it’s hard to feel sorry for yourself when you’re trying not to keel over halfway through the climb.
  3. Let your friends drag you to sushi at Kintaro, where the food is good enough to momentarily distract you from your heartbreak.
  4. Spend a day at Granville Island, letting yourself get lost among the markets like an indie movie protagonist searching for meaning.

It’s not that Vancouver heals you—it’s that it lets you sit with your sadness until you realize you can stand again. Relationships might come and go, but Vancouver remains—steady, unchanging in its hazy, coastal steadiness.

The Takeaway

If love were a place, for me, it would be Vancouver. It would be the sound of rain hitting café windows, the sight of cherry blossoms littering the sidewalk like confetti, and the smell of sea-salt air after a storm. It would be platters of sushi you can’t finish, hikes that leave you breathless, and the quiet comfort of familiarity shared with someone who knows you better than anyone.

This city didn’t just shape me—it shaped how I love. It taught me that connections aren’t about grand gestures but small, quiet moments: picking up someone’s favorite snack on your way home from work or knowing when to hold their hand without saying a word. It taught me patience, openness, resilience—and how to laugh at myself when things get tough (usually in the middle of a rainstorm).

So here’s my advice: fall in love with someone, sure. But also fall in love with a place. Let it teach you, comfort you, and challenge you. Because when love feels unsteady—as it sometimes will—it helps to have a place, much like Vancouver, to remind you what it means to truly feel at home.