Exactly five years ago today, I drove from California to Utah to start a new chapter of my life.

I woke before the sunrise, threw my hair into a messy bun, and hopped in the car. My energy was absolutely buzzing—I couldn’t believe this was all finally happening!

I’d recently accepted a full-time copywriting gig for a company based in Salt Lake City, and was all in on making a change in my career. I was so excited to finally be in a creative role after years of working project management roles, feeling chained to my desk.

I’d packed everything I could fit into my little Kia Optima, then sold or gifted the rest of my belongings, and set off on a new adventure. A fresh start.

I remember driving Highway 20 through the Sierra Nevada foothills, the darkness slowly lifting as the sun came up, tall pine trees on either side of me. I was enjoying the playlist I’d made for the drive, hoping that a cop wouldn’t notice that one of my headlights was out.

It will be fine, I had told myself that morning, when I first noticed. Chico to Reno passed in a blur as I reflected on the twists and turns that had brought me to this moment.

The year prior had been a year of massive growth for me. Many small moments of learning to trust myself in deeper ways.

I was opening up to the idea that I deserved more—that I could have more from life.

The pull to Utah had started with a spontaneous trip in late May. I walked a marathon with a group of adventurers from all over the country. It was led by James Lawrence, an ultra-distance athlete known as Iron Cowboy.

He was breaking a world record, doing 100 triathlons for 100 days straight. And the cool part? He had opened up the experience to locals and travelers from all over to join him.

I participated on Day 91.

Some of the people there did the full triathlon (swimming, biking, and running), while some of us just joined for the miles on foot.

We walked for hours and hours in the hot sun, eating popsicles along the way, smiling at the locals who had signs and would cheer us on as we passed. I felt the power of the impressive, craggy Wasatch front ridgeline around us. I looked at the mountains with awe, breathing in the fresh air and feeling grateful that I could do something like this.

We all crossed the finish line together.

James turned to the crowd as and shared these words, which I’ll never forget.

“Good, bad, or indifferent,” he said, “You guys are all on a journey. And wherever you are right now in your journey right now is beautiful. And there’s lessons to be learned, good, bad, or ugly. Take some time. Stop. Forgive yourself for your past. Stop worrying so much about the future because tomorrow is not guaranteed. Just take a minute and appreciate where you are right now.

My favorite finish line is number 91 because that’s exactly where I am right now. My favorite finish crowd is you guys right now, because you’re with me right here, right now. Tomorrow will be my favorite finish line, when I get there. But right now it’s you guys, so thank you so much for the continued support and the love.”

It was wild, an experience I’ll never forget. It was fun. It was lighthearted. There was no official race, but we had all joined together for a life experience we’d always remember. There was a powerful collective energy in that.

Showing up to see what was possible, how far we could go.

That day, Utah planted in my mind as a possibility of what could be next.

The adventure of walking that marathon stood in contrast to the experience I’d had doing a 50K race less than a month earlier at the Tillamook Burn, a trail run up in Oregon.

I’d spent over a year training for the Burn.

I was in peak physical shape, and stoked to see what I could prove out on the trail.

But when I got there, it wasn’t as fun as I’d expected it to be. No doubt because of that ‘proving’ part ;)

The course itself was beautiful, and I was surrounded by awesome people—but because of the pressure I put on myself to “do well,” the experience fell flat for me. I’d made it more intense than it needed to be. I cried, scrambling up the hilly terrain. I was proud of myself, but also questioning what I was really running toward.

I knew I wanted an adventure without so much pressure.

For as much as I’d been excited for months leading up to the 50k, I left feeling… let down. Hungry for something more joyful. A bit deflated, but also still curious about what was possible.

What was I searching for, out there running all of those miles? Why was I doing it?

Why had I spent so much of my life searching for the next thing? Always pushing myself to achieve the next thing?

These questions circled in my brain after I returned to northern California post race, continually feeling more and more jaded about my job, how I worked so hard but didn’t really enjoy what I was doing.

I wanted a more creative life, something more adventurous. I wanted to give myself permission not to work so hard all the time. I wanted a life that felt more balanced, more free.

And so when that Iron Cowboy event popped up, driving all the way to Utah on a whim was the spontaneous adventure I’d been craving.

The pace was slower, and there was no medal at the finish line. We were simply there to enjoy each mile and see what was possible.

Utah delivered—and I took notice of that.

I returned to Chico and began to explore what job opportunities were available in Salt Lake City. I googled pricing on houses to rent, thought about how many times the wildfires in California had left me feeling depressed and restless, and began dreaming of a different life.

And then, not so many months later, I landed a job that would give me “senior copywriter” in my email signature, a huge bump in pay, and all the motivation I needed to move.

Little did I realize at the time, moving near the mountains would also shift my training, and my mindset around not only running but how I wanted to live—with less pressure, more freedom, and more balance.

Coming here has been the catalyst to finally, fully, truly trust in my intuition and where it leads me.

On that long drive across Nevada, the flat landscape and desert shrubs in every direction, I celebrated. I talked to myself out loud, congratulating myself on finding the courage to make this move.

“You did it, Rach,” I told myself. “We’re here.”

I thought about the book I’d just published, Empath Warrior Mindset. My exploration of the mindset meditations that had gotten me here, the many days crying wondering if it would all work out, the many nights dreaming about what was possible for me.

It was in that book that I’d written:

You are starting to see the value in courageous pursuits.

You’re asking yourself, What have I been holding off on because I was scared to fail?

It’s time to become the scientist of your own life. Run experiments where you aren’t sure what will happen, but you’re too curious not to find out.

Now here I was, making a 700-ish mile drive, curious about what was possible for me, and ready to find out.

I made it through the drive with just one headlight, but it was enough to show me the way forward, through the darkness before sunrise and into the brightness of the day.

Years prior, I’d read the quote: “How brave of you to imagine a different life.” Now in the car, on the way to a new and different life, I said it out loud to myself, zooming past the wide open spaces of the high desert.

I stopped along the way for breaks to stretch my legs and eat the snacks I’d bought from one of my favorite juice shops in Chico.

As I got closer and closer to Salt Lake City, I called a friend and reflected on all the beautiful moments and belief in myself that had gotten me here.

Tears swelled in my eyes as I saw the city skyline finally come into view. Here I was. Wow. I’d really done it!

I pulled up to the house where I was renting a basement apartment and walked in to find a bunch of flowers in the sink, a little welcome gift from the the family that lived upstairs who I was renting from.

I rolled out my yoga mat, collapsed on the floor for a deep breath, and took it all in.

A handful of trips later, climbing the stairs at the side of the house up to my car to grab all of my stuff, I’d made it.

Moving to Utah changed a lot for me, not just physically but also in how I see the world—and how I live.

It has been a slow and steady journey into more balance, into fully trusting what I’m capable of, and standing in my power.

Taking better and better care of myself. Giving myself more grace. Following my dreams in big ways.

And knowing that the call of my heart—the impulses I feel to go on different adventures, or try different things—those are real. And when I honor them, the most beautiful things in life follow swiftly.

Here I am, five years later, still in awe that I made it here. That I did it. I changed my life and trusted the outcome—and it led me to be able to pursue more of my greatest dreams, and to embody a life that moves at the right pace for me.

I have a lot of appreciation for the woman who decided we could do it.

For her courage. Her belief in self. Her willingness to trust the desire.

I am so, so grateful, five years later, for my choice to move here.

Alive in the Fire