What do I stand for? It’s a question I’ve asked myself countless times, whether I’m tucked into the corner of a downtown coffee shop scribbling in a notebook or talking over sweet tea with my mom out on her porch swing. And truthfully, the answer always takes me back to the same foundation: storytelling and connection. That’s what roots everything I do, from writing to relationships, and it’s the compass that helps me navigate the sometimes thrilling, sometimes messy, and often unpredictable terrain of love and life.
Here’s the thing—relationships, much like a good country song, aren’t meant to be perfect. They’re meant to be true. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my upbringing steeped in harmony and narrative, it’s this: under all the noise, people are just looking for something real.
Embracing the Chorus of Imperfection
Growing up in Nashville, my life was set to a soundtrack. My dad strummed heartbreak ballads in smoky bars, and my mom taught kids to find their voices through music. Between those two worlds, I learned that life, like a well-loved vinyl, is full of skips, scratches, and melodies that don’t always land where you expect them to.
I believe relationships should embrace that same kind of imperfection. You don’t need a highlight reel; you need something that feels human. Once, while on a casual date at a honky-tonk, my companion spilled an ice-cold beer straight into his lap. Awkward? Sure. But we laughed so hard I swear the fiddle player gave us a nod. That sticky, goofy moment stuck with me far longer than any overly polished dinner date ever could.
What I’m saying is: stop aiming for perfection. The best connections come from being a little messy. Wear your quirks like fringe jackets and rhinestone boots—they attract the kind of people who will love you for exactly who you are, clumsy beer laps and all.
Listening Like a Songwriter
The best love stories—country ballad or otherwise—start with listening. I don’t mean the kind of listening where you nod politely and internally wonder when it’s your turn to talk. I mean listening to feel the rhythm of someone’s words, the pauses in their laughter, what they’re saying even when they’re too afraid to say it aloud.
When I write, whether it’s a short story or an essay, I think about what isn’t on the page as much as what is. And in relationships, it’s no different. Real connection comes from leaning into those untold stories. For me, that practice started as a kid, sitting cross-legged on my grandmother’s living room floor while she told stories about how she met my granddad—a chance encounter at a church picnic and a fight over who made the better fried chicken. (For the record, she did.)
So, here’s my advice: ask questions the way Dolly Parton writes lyrics—with curiosity and warmth. Instead of “How was your day?” try “What was the best thing that happened to you today?” And then, when they answer, really tune in. Hearing someone is one thing. Listening is an act of love.
Staying Rooted in Your Own Verse
When I was 15, I tried—quite disastrously—to dye my hair platinum blonde after seeing Faith Hill rock it in a music video. Spoiler alert: I looked less like a pop-country queen and more like someone who’d taken on a rogue experiment in the high school science lab. My mom, once she stopped laughing, said something that sticks with me to this day: “Honey, the song doesn’t work if you’re singing someone else’s words.”
That’s true for relationships, too. It’s tempting, especially in the early stages, to mold yourself into whoever you think the other person wants you to be. You downplay your love of karaoke because they say they hate it, or you suddenly “love” hiking even though your idea of a workout is swiping on a touch screen. But the moment you start smudging out parts of your personality, you’ll find yourself on shaky ground.
Instead, lean into who you are. If you love ‘90s rom-coms, own it—thank you very much, “Notting Hill.” If you hate small talk and want to dive straight into the deep stuff, do it. Besides, wouldn’t you rather someone fall for the weird little things that make you you, instead of who you were pretending to be?
Don’t Skip the Solo
One of the most underrated parts of both songwriting and life: the solo section. In music, it’s when the singer steps back to let the guitar—or banjo or fiddle—shine. In relationships, it’s that sacred space where you stand on your own.
I’ve crossed paths with many people who see singlehood as some desolate waiting room for love. But the truth is, it’s your chance to figure out who you are without harmonizing with anyone else. I’m not saying it’s easy—there were nights I sat by the Cumberland River, aching for some chord to strike, worried the melody I wanted would never come together.
But it’s during those solo moments that I grew the most. I started running along Nashville’s greenways with nothing but Fleetwood Mac in my ears. I wrote stories not for publication, but for the sheer joy of it. I learned that being alone isn’t the same as being lonely—it’s the verse you write before you can share the chorus with someone else.
So, take yourself on dates. Be the main character at your favorite restaurant. Discover parts of yourself no one else has ever noticed. The best relationships start when two people bring their whole selves to the table, not just the chorus but the verses, bridges, and risks, too.
Love Like the Last Encore
If there’s one thing that music, writing, and my dating life have taught me, it’s that love—real, honest love—isn’t just about finding someone. It’s about showing up, flaws and all, and dancing like nobody’s watching.
My parents weren’t perfect, but man, did they love fiercely. It showed in the way my mom packed an extra jacket in case my dad left his at the next gig, and in the way my dad always tried (and failed) to play her favorite Carpenters song without busting a string. It was in their laughter as they burnt another Saturday morning breakfast, their arguments about whether the thermostat was set too high, and the way they turned even those debates into a duet.
That’s what I stand for: the kind of love that doesn’t hide behind filters or shy away from scratches. The kind that finds beauty in quiet mornings, awkward first dates, or dancing to old records in your living room.
So here’s my encore for you: love with your whole heart, whether it’s for a partner, a friend, or yourself. And while you’re at it, press play on that metaphorical jukebox and never be afraid to sing along—even if you hit a sour note. Life’s too short to sit in silence.
