The Place That Made Me

When you grow up in a Latter-day Saint household in suburban Utah, there’s a certain predictability to your weekends. Mine were a steady stream of early-morning hikes with my family in the Wasatch Mountains, followed by post-hike waffles so abundantly doused in syrup that they were practically dessert. It was a life marked by stability, scripture, and just enough structure to make you believe that nothing unexpected could happen in a place framed by such orderly, towering peaks. But let me tell you, love, connection, and—yes—dating? Those things have a way of turning even the most grounded landscape into uncharted territory.

And yet, this place, my mountain-hemmed corner of the world, shaped me in ways I didn’t recognize until I started stumbling through adulthood and its accompanying labyrinth of relationships. Love and self-discovery, it turns out, owe more to geography than we might think.

Where The Mountains Meet The Mess

There’s something inherently humbling about growing up at the base of the Wasatch Mountains. Every peak feels like it has something ancient and profound to say, which I imagine is a little like dating someone smarter than you—they’re always challenging, asking more of you, pushing you to climb higher, and yet, somehow, leaving you at peace.

I think the mountains taught me the art of patience long before anyone ever ghosted me (which ironically I also learned happens a lot more quickly in real life than on a dusty hiking trail). When you’re on a three-hour ascent, there’s no shortcut to the summit. It’s one step at a time, pushing through the burn while adjusting to whatever uneven ground you’re treading on. Turns out, love can feel a lot like that too: rugged, beautiful in an unpredictable way, and deeply uncomfortable if you’re wearing the wrong shoes.

Growing up in suburbia, dating looked a lot like Friday nights on well-lit porches, fueled by Mountain Dew and hopes of holding hands. But stepping into adulthood—and away from my small-town bubble—meant realizing that human connection wasn’t always simple, clean, or cheesily scripted like those LDS promposal videos we all pretended not to cringe at. Relationships could, in fact, be messy. Sometimes, intentionally messy.

The Trailhead Of Self-Awareness

The great irony of my upbringing is that while everything around me seemed structured—faith, family, even Friday night curfews—getting to know myself wasn’t. I think part of what made growing up in Utah both foundational and frustrating was how it encouraged two polar impulses: conformity and curiosity.

Falling in love—or more accurately, falling on my face in love—was where the curiosity kicked in. It was on one such figurative face-plant that I realized how much of my romantic identity was tangled up with the place I came from. In college, for example, I went on a date with a self-described backpacker from Denver who spent a good ten minutes pontificating on the superiority of Colorado trails compared to Utah’s. It was meant to be playful, but I took it as blasphemy and proceeded to passionately defend my home state. By the end of dinner, we both knew the date was going nowhere (though I like to think I won the argument).

That date taught me that geography isn’t just about where you’re from—it’s also where your values and quirks are born. The silent reverence of Utah’s landscapes colored my outlook on relationships: I valued intention over spontaneity, depth over surface-level charm, and if I’m being honest, the occasional degree of quiet awe. On less flattering days, it probably also made me stubborn as a mule on a treacherous climb.

Lessons From Salt Flats And Solitude

If patience was the first love lesson the Utah landscape gave me, solitude was the second. It’s one thing to be 20 miles deep into the backcountry and realize your granola supply is running low. It’s another to spend a Saturday night alone in Salt Lake City, convincing yourself that watching The Bachelor is as fulfilling as actual human interaction (spoiler alert: it’s not).

But solitude is funny. Much like the Bonneville Salt Flats that stretch endlessly with no clear end in sight, solitude forces you to confront yourself in ways that are deeply revealing. It’s where I learned that being single isn’t a condition to cure or a phase to rush through, but a space for self-cultivation. I spent solitary weekends sprawled out in Millcreek Canyon with a notebook, journaling through what I wanted in love versus what I thought I should want.

And trust me, the “should” can be a roadblock as wide as Bryce Canyon. Every cultural expectation I’d grown up with emphasized marriage as the ultimate marker of adulthood. Growing up LGBTQ within that framework added another layer to navigate—I wasn’t quite ready to dive into serious relationships, but I also didn’t want to live in hiding. Solitude became my place of practice.

Seeing The Forest For The Trees

Perhaps the greatest thing about Utah is that it doesn’t expect you to look a certain way or behave in one singular manner—at least not in nature. The trees in Big Cottonwood Canyon twist in unpredictable ways, bending to make do with whatever sunlight they can find. That same resilience, I realized, could apply to love.

One of the most memorable dates I ever had wasn’t in a trendy café or over some curated plates of farm-to-table fare—it was on a starry night in Zion National Park. My date and I didn’t talk much because, frankly, words felt inadequate. But we sat on the slick red rocks and shared something beautifully simple: stargazing and silence. It didn’t end in wedding bells or “happily ever after,” but it taught me that love doesn’t always have to be fireworks. Sometimes, it’s just a shared moment of wonder under a breathtaking night sky.

Taking Home With You

When people ask what it’s like to grow up in a place like Salt Lake, I tell them it’s like falling for someone who’s predictably steady until, one day, they surprise you with an unexpected side of humor or grit. My home may not seem like the most obvious teacher of love and relationships, but it shaped me in ways I can’t outrun.

I’ve taken lessons from the quiet canyons, the jagged cliffs, and the sunlit valleys into every piece of my love story so far. And as far as I’ve come, I know I’ll never be done learning from the landscapes of home.

So if you’re feeling stuck—whether in love, life, or the rough terrain of self-discovery—my advice is simple: find your “place.” Maybe for you, it’s not the mountains or deserts; maybe it’s a city skyline, a small-town diner, or even a boxed-in bedroom filled with secondhand paperbacks. But wherever it is, lean into it. Let it leave its mark.

Because no matter how far you go, there’s something beautiful about letting the place that made you guide the way forward.