Hi, I’m from Connecticut, and I’m going to be writing about Maine culture.

For the last 18 years I’ve lived here, I wouldn’t have led with that. When I moved to Portland after college, I learned quickly that mention of my home state almost always would be met with indifference or disdain, and never anything in the realm of “Oh cool, tell me more!”

Since then, I’ve had a don’t-offer-unless-asked policy about my place of origin and also tried to refrain from going around, collar popped, insisting people eat their lobster rolls hot with butter. But now that I’m going to be writing a column about “how we do things up here,” I thought I should come clean up front, rather than leaving it to a commenter to out me as someone “from away.”

That phrase. You might assume I’m among the growing group of people who thinks it needs to be given the Bean boot, but it doesn’t bother me. I do think there’s a distinction between people who grow up here and those of us who choose to live here as adults. And I could argue that we transplants are in a better position to opine on life in the Pine Tree State. How’s that for Hot Take No. 1?

People from away tend to come in wide-eyed, eager to learn everything we can about our new home. We soak in and regurgitate Maine culture in an attempt to become part of it and make it part of us, all while being told our official Mainerdom is a nonstarter. Yes, thirsty, for sure, but also kind of flattering, right?

I remember the first time I heard the “Maine County Song” (the version that ends with “Oxford and Penobscot”) and immediately decided to commit it to memory. This fall, on a road trip to Canada by way of Calais, I finally fulfilled my goal of setting foot in all 16 — even if I earned my Washington County badge at Cumberland Farms.

These aren’t the sort of things any born-and-bred Mainer would set out to do, but, as a result, I’ve seen more of the state than someone who’s content to limit their travel to camp and back (not that there’s anything wrong with that).

Some of my assimilation has happened more organically. I hadn’t lived here long when, on a visit back home, my brother laughed at my pronunciation of “God.” Apparently, the “o” had morphed from a tri-state “ah” into a northern New England “aw” when I wasn’t looking.

And over time, I’ve come to prefer Maine Italians the way they’re meant to be eaten, after years of taking flak for ordering them with turkey.

But it would be hard to convince me there’s a better Maine education than working as a newspaper reporter here. The first decade of my career brought me to Carrabassett Valley for a chairlift derailment at Sugarloaf, an Alfred courthouse for the state’s first criminal trial over bottle-redemption fraud, and Katahdin Woods and Waters for a tour by the Interior secretary. Mainers welcomed me into their lives and homes for some of their most sacred moments, from a second baptism to a first father-daughter dance.

For the past seven years, as the Press Herald’s features editor, I’ve overseen our coverage of southern Maine’s booming restaurant scene and the Portland Museum of Art’s controversial expansion plans, edited our weekly entertainment magazine and, in between, encouraged reporters to seek out those quirky stories that are totally unique to Maine.

In the new year, I’ll be bringing you my thoughts on what gives the state its distinctive identity and how Maine is changing in ways we like (more restaurants!) and ways we don’t (more ice storms), as well as lighthearted looks at the things we notice and wonder about as we go through our everyday lives.

And I’ll be looking to you to tell me what’s on your mind — and in your group text chats — to try to capture as much of the state as I can. If I’m missing the mark, I’m sure, in that honest and earnest Maine way, you’ll let me know.