I was raised at the top of a mile-long dirt road. You pass sheep and goats before discovering my home that's painted blue with white trim and a red door - The patriotic message wasn't intentional. Our barn rests in the middle of the property, while my grandparent’s home is to the right. A little studio my parents lived in when pregnant with me, and that I moved into during my visits from college, resides in the back. Two chihuahuas and two cats are happy to greet you upon arrival. I grew up with quick showers to preserve the water from our well, a trusty gas stove you had to light yourself, a fireplace for the cold winter months, and no cable TV.

People are surprised to hear this kind of life coming from what they imagine Martha’s Vineyard to be. I’m always met with wide eyes and raised brows, an assuming expression for my hometown. And they’re not wrong; I am so lucky to have grown up here. But not for the reasons they think. Not for the white picket fences and Vineyard Vines quarter zips. Not because of the yacht clubs and Katama mansions. Not even the visits from celebrities and presidents make me as grateful as I am for my home.

My island is home to some of the best teachers in the world. I don’t attribute such love to them for their credentials, while often impressive in their own right, but rather for their warm hearts and gentle understanding. The West Tisbury Elementary and Middle School allowed me to fall in love with writing, art, and human connection, and to explore them ferociously. My teachers held my hand and guided me towards what I loved. There is a deep community here.

The Vineyard is beautiful. It's brilliantly alive. And while popular beaches like State and South have their own charm, the amount of undiscovered and rarely trekked nature is overwhelming. Beach flowers abundant, rolling fields forever, wild blueberry picking, and the most glorious vistas to ever be found. It’s true, the summers on MV are inebriating.

It’s the winters that you don’t know about. They are bone-chillingly cold and snowy. Our population drops by well over half after the summer. There are no beach flowers or blueberries then. Sometimes the shower never gets warm. This is why you don't visit in January.

I love my eccentric home with the crazy locals and crazier tourists. I adore the absence of chain stores and traffic lights (no McDonalds or malls!), and the highest ‘highway’ speed of 45 mph. I’m obsessed with the friends I grew up with, the forest I live in, and the untouchable morals woven into my heart. My cold little island, I love you.