

Award-Winning Digital Strategist


This is a column piece written for BYU-I’s news organization, Scroll.
“You’re going to hate it.”
That was the response I got when I told my friends and family that I was transferring from Utah State University to BYU-Idaho.
To give context, I graduated high school in 2019 and went to Utah State that fall. I moved to an apartment complex where I didn’t know anyone, worked at a soda shop and took some general classes — your typical Utah college student.
I loved my experience in Logan. The campus was beautiful, my classes were uplifting and my roommates influenced my life in a positive way. While placed in fortunate circumstances, I continued with an aimless direction in my classes and life.
When the pandemic hit and in-person classes were canceled, I was relieved. I was unsure how to handle the college workload, so even though the world was afraid, I felt a weight off my chest. The lockdown ended up being a period of pristine reflection.
On paper, my life seemed complete, but I felt I wasn’t where I needed to be.
I remember sitting in my kitchen and a thought came to my mind, “You could go to BYU-Idaho.”
That sentence was quiet and vague. Although soundless, those thoughts spanned my mind, and I realized I was at a crossroads: I could stay and live my life in Logan or go on a different course in Rexburg.
After reflecting for a few weeks, one of my friends decided to transfer to BYU-I and asked me to be her roommate. To me, that was the push I needed. I didn’t let the confused responses I received cloud my vision, I just did it. I moved to Rexburg, Idaho, in the fall of 2020.
That first semester wasn’t what I had in my head.
The campus looked completely separate from a contemporary university. The people were different, the town was small and I wondered what I had gotten myself into. On day two of living in Rexburg, I called my family and told them that they were right.
But I decided to stay.
Close to two years later, I am a married woman planning to graduate next fall. Looking back, I realize that Rexburg has given me my entire life. This simple town has given me joy, relationships and lessons that are the most beautiful things I can offer from my life thus far.
Nothing is perfect — Rexburg is cold in the winter, hot in the summer and sometimes feels limiting. However, I let that modest location change my world in a positive way.
I started this process by going outside of my comfort zone. I changed my major, applied to be an editor for the school newspaper and spoke up about what was important to me, even if I was afraid of what others had to say. It was how I met my husband and learned to love who I see in the mirror.
If Rexburg is a difficult place for you, I get it. Despite what you have in mind, I encourage students here at BYU-I to take advantage of the social, academic and spiritual opportunities around them because it is more beautiful than you think.
So why did I choose to come to BYU-I? It was because I wanted to. I felt like it would give me a positive change.
Create direction in your life, even if you are discouraged and unsure. Your time here in Rexburg could create a stunning story for you if let it.
Through thickets and thorns
I still stand today
Through scars and songs
I’ve seemed to make my way
I give more than I should
For the vessels inside me are empty
And they say
Darling
You are the most important thing in this world
You are a temple
A God
To care for you is the priority
But
Nothing seems more vacant
Than trying to fill the well
That has no water
For that water is nonexistent
And perishable
So I fill it with what I know
With mud and sticks
With thickets and thorns
Why did my roots hurt others so much?
My intention was good
Wasn’t it?
It was good
Through the thickets and thorns
Lakes and lilies
Death and darkness and duo
This and that
I pair so much together it seems to have leaked into my speech
I hope you find these pairs and make them
Applicable
But I know I have found my path
And happiness is here
My roots have further to grow
And leaves are just starting
To peak through the forest’s way
I know He led me to a lake
Wells never suited me anyway
I hope when we meet again
You can see a mecca
I have made in myself
A road
I have paved myself
Trees I have planted
And kept alive
Myself
By being myself
I hope when we meet again
You can be proud of the
Documents
I have collected in my speech
Essays
That reflect in my skin
So many words
I have pieced together
That you can see me glowing
Maybe it’s the lighting
Or the lighting in me
That dissipated
Never quite gone
Just spread apart
As if galaxies
Were waving to distant friends
Not blinding
But merely expanding
Growing
Growing to where
I can finally see past
The vines
That held me back
For so long
I guess when we meet again
You can build thoughts of me
For yourself
And I’d hope they have changed
But it’s not to you
What I am
I guess I shouldn’t mind
The status of me
In the mind of you
In the mind of anyone
I finally fit
In this body
And want to share
Whenever we meet again
I feel as if I am the space between two
A gap in the fabric sewn
Traveling a road
With traits I didn’t choose
What an embedded
Breath
We have been searching for substance
Looking for what was promised
It’s a sudden tap on a window
You see
A bomb in a birdcage
And the brief absence
Of a conscious mind
On repeat
Stitch me one by one
Push me out to sea
As I walk among tripwires of the mind
I will count away the bursts
In the square formation
Taught to me
Wandering
Wasting
The rise I am given
In an instant
Like a crack in thinning ice
I am flung into a time I had since stored away
A hidden file in my mind
Playing
Mimicking a younger self
Scratched
Shrugged
Grazing the surface of a time past
Not quite as clear
But still so crisp
That you could hear the sweet lyrics
Which were so comforting once before
Suddenly I am dancing with a previous ego
And I watch her fade away
Analyzing this time and the next
A dull ache creeps into my stomach
Seeing this younger me
My heart stays there
And becomes heavy
Just like sticky honey
With a soft residue
It leaves a mark
A dent in the wall
A crack on a screen
Again
And again
As open jars are shattered across a glass floor
They reflect a stronger
And nostalgic mind
If you choose to stare back
You can see a previous life
Fly by as quick as it arrived
I want a love like sunlight
Soft
And tangled across a room
A kiss like rays
A constant worth
With a warm design
That infinitely and absolutely
Burns
I look at the feathers
Of a grey dove
The way it shines
In unadulterated light
How soft it would be to the touch
The way she floats on nothing
But her own pure will
I look at the sky and its shades
At different sections of day
Or to count how many clouds
With shining eyes
How did this come to be?
What do I dare to know?
What can I know?
It was the year 2008. My little body sat in the stiff, adjustable chair next to the family desktop computer. I opened a word document and dragged Google images onto the blank workspace. I wrote my heart out based on uncontextualized images. It was silly stories about bears, poorly executed poems about flowers or journal entries about my school day. Those words are gone, lost on some formidable hard drive, but the memory remains still.
As the preteen years came and went, I lost that little artist. She was buried under heaps of self-doubt and negativity. That doubt extended until I was 20 years old. It was unfortunate because 2021 was the most growing year of my life. I wasn’t there to experience it, to document it.
But I was still loved nonetheless.
At the beginning of 2022, I dedicated this to being the happiest year of my life. I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew I wanted to be happy. What better way to achieve that than a new year?
I have a habit of taking new years resolutions quite seriously. I check in with myself throughout the year and usually have a list of goals hung up on a door. This year’s resolutions were to be present, social, share my work and be heard.
For whatever reason, this year has blessed me tremendously. I think it was because I allowed myself to be myself. I allowed the people that love me to love me. I stopped putting up walls and realized the potential that I was told I had so much of as a little girl.
My husband told me that I was going to write amazing things this year. He said I would lift people up and achieve powerful things. Recently I had a friend tell me that I was beautiful, inside and out. Those words have created a newfound love and protection for myself.
I know I’m not perfect, but I work hard every day to reach my potential and lift others. I have a new kind of acceleration, just like that seven-year-old girl with all the support in the world. Now I have the eyes to see it. To believe it.
2022 is a good year.