Love where you live.
Despite the occasional snarky keyboard warrior over on Middleburg Uncensored—and a small, dedicated club of people who seem to wake up committed to being mildly unpleasant—the overwhelming majority of this town is something else entirely: kind, generous, deeply human.
And I mean deeply.
I truly love living in Middleburg. Not in the glossy brochure, “isn’t this quaint” kind of way—but in the lived-in, muddy-boots, stop-your-day-for-someone-else kind of way. The kind that makes you pause and think, this might actually be one of the best places on earth to call home.
Where else do you make a U-turn to pick up a neighbor walking to work in the rain… only to find someone else already beat you to it? Of course they did. Because around here, we don’t just notice—we act.
At church, during the Passing of the Peace, people don’t politely nod to the backs of a few familiar heads and call it a day. No, no. They circulate. It’s a full-contact sport. Front pew to back row, aisle to aisle—like a holy version of speed dating, but with more sincerity and better outfits. And I love it. Because that spirit? It doesn’t stay inside those walls. It spills out into daily life in the best possible way.
This past year has been… a lot. The kind of “a lot” that humbles you, cracks you open a bit. And what filled those cracks? People. Family, friends, yes—but also strangers. Beautiful, unexpected strangers.
At a town event not long ago, someone simply said hello to me. Just a normal, kind, human greeting. And I—clearly very stable—burst into full, ugly, mascara-running tears. Not a glisten. Not a single dignified tear. We’re talking commitment.
And instead of backing away slowly (as one might when confronted with a black-streaked emotional stranger), they stayed. My new friend and his crew circled up, steadied me, let me have my moment until I could breathe again and rejoin society looking slightly less haunted.
To them, I was probably “that crying lady.”
To me, it was grace in real time.
That’s Middleburg.
Lose a dog, a horse, a pig (because yes, that happens here), and suddenly you’ve got a full-scale search party—texts flying, trucks rolling, neighbors showing up like it’s their own animal missing. Break a leg? Lose a loved one? Have a rough patch? There will be casseroles. There will be soups. There will be enough food to sustain a small army and enough love to get you through it.
Farmers show up with tractors when you didn’t even know you needed one. Someone plows your driveway before you’ve had your first cup of coffee. Another brings water when the power’s out. No fanfare. No invoice. Just… because.
A friend once told me, “The teachings of Jesus are simple: love your neighbor and don’t be a jerk.”
And honestly? That about sums it up.
Middleburg gets it right more often than not.
It’s not perfect—but it’s pretty special.
Jerks need not apply.
