Wakara Way: Reflections on My Life in Utah Over the Last Four Years

I’ve parked here before.

It’s 9:00 am on a Monday and I’m staring out my windshield at the front of the Natural History Museum of Utah. Its brown, angular exterior glows with the sunrise. Today I’m here for a run in the foothills. I’m here for that sound of the crunch crunch crunch of gravel under my feet, the solid feeling of the ground beneath me. I even want the breathless feeling that comes with the first run back after a break. I’m okay with being winded if it means feeling that runner’s high at the end—that heavy, relaxed feeling that floods my body.

After a good run, I can relax.

I remember the first time I was here in this parking lot, I didn’t feel all that relaxed. I felt more of a stirring. A longing. A wondering how it would all come together. Will all this work out? This new dream of mine to move to Utah?

I was here four years ago, parking my rental car. I was visiting Salt Lake City to shop for housing. I knew I’d be moving here a few months later, to start a new adventure. I’d landed a high-paying job as a copywriter, a new chapter that felt so exciting even if it meant starting over somewhere completely new—and alone.

During that visit, I parked the car and walked up to Red Butte Garden, planning to do a tour of the gardens. But after enjoying the cool air in the air-conditioned bathroom and glancing around the gift shop, I felt tired. I wanted to head back to my hotel to rest. I did note the blue butterfly decorations in the gift shop, a sign that I was in the right place at the right time. Blue butterflies are a sign for me, and this was a welcome reminder to take a deep breath and trust. The properties I’d visited that day hadn’t panned out—the first was gone before I even got off the plane and the second wasn’t a fit. But I was determined to drive around to a few more neighborhoods the next day and had some promising appointments lined up.

I remember pausing in the parking lot for a moment before I left. Taking in the view.

The parking lot at the Natural History Museum looks out over the Salt Lake Valley. Looking west, you can see the Oquirrh mountains and Kennecott Mine and the urban sprawl mixed with green trees stretching into the horizon.

I remember scanning my eyes across that distance, looking all the way west as far as I could see. Imagining all that lay beyond it, all the way west to California where I’d flown in from. Where I’d grown up. I imagined making the drive here, all that way. Miles across mountains and desert.

On the drive back to my hotel, as it started to rain lightly, all the summer trees were lit up in green.

I saw a massive rainbow, with the powerful ridgeline of the Wasatch Front staring through me behind all of those colors. Another prescient sign.

Today the air is dry, and the summer heat is here. No rain.

Today the sky is vaulted with clouds, little white whispers swooping down.

I stare out, taking a breath as I remember what it felt like when I first saw this place. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, what I loved so much, but I knew I wanted to be here. I felt clarity every time I visited. I felt a sense of adventure, like there was more of life waiting for me here. The jagged mountains as a backdrop to the city—there was a rush every time I saw that view. I also loved the perfectly neat lines of the grid, the way they stretched in all directions, organized and arranged in well-spaced lines. There was a distinct feeling of possibility in the air.

When I first parked my car in front of the museum and stared off at the beauty of Salt Lake City, I had no idea what was waiting for me.

I had no idea that a year and a half later I'd be wandering among dinosaur bones at my company's holiday party inside the museum.

I had no idea I'd hike these very foothills with MBA candidates from a program I'd eventually leave behind.

And I certainly had no idea that two and a half years later I’d be walking with my husband through this very same parking lot, both of us dressed to the nines in our wedding attire, to take portraits. I would grip the soft satin material of my cream-colored wedding dress, holding it off the ground as I walked up the stairs past the Natural History Museum and over to Red Butte Garden, where I’d finally go inside to walk around among all of the beautiful blooms, smiling and laughing with the love of my life, breathing it all in, this new dream.

Today as I lace up my shoes and stretch out my legs for a short trail run, as I take in that view, I can feel how far I’ve come in these last four years. The winding, unexpected turns life has taken. All of the lovely gifts and moments and memories that have made my Utah chapter mine.

I think about how trust looks different now. Four years ago, I was trusting in possibility—in blue butterflies and rainbows and the feeling that something good was waiting. Today I'm trusting in what I've built, in the solid ground beneath my feet. The view is the same, but I'm seeing it through different eyes.

My little parking lot time capsule. Four years of dreams and doubts and discoveries, all held in this single view. The mountains haven't changed, but I have. I close my eyes and feel the sun on my face. Warm. Familiar.

I’m so grateful I took the chance and bet on myself and the expansive feeling of this view.

I’ll stay another minute or two, watching the morning light catch the mountains. Feeling grateful for every step that brought me here, grateful for every step up the winding trail that I’ll take today. Same parking lot. Different woman.

It’s time to run.