Finding Love in Familiar Places (and Letting It Frustrate You Too)

You don’t fully appreciate the sound of sprinklers until you’ve heard it at midnight in a sleepy Utah suburb. That incessant ch-ch-ch of the lawn’s lifeblood spraying under a dome of endless stars is as close to a lullaby as I ever got growing up. It’s a sound that teeters between comfort and irritation—much like my feelings about the place I call home.

If you’ve ever navigated complex relationships—with your crush, your family, or the town that raised you—you already get it. Home, like love, can both hold you close and drive you up a wall. For me, that wall was built brick by brick in a Latter-day Saint stronghold where I felt both deeply rooted and desperate to escape. Spoiler alert: The joke was on me. Wherever I ran, "home" tagged along like an overeager sibling. Here’s my love/hate story.

Act One: Wasatch Views and Worries

Salt Lake City is beautiful—there’s no disputing that. Sandwiched between mountains that feel big enough to hug and a sky vast enough to test your faith, it’s a postcard come to life. Growing up, I spent Saturdays hiking in the Wasatch Mountains, afternoons soaking up the sun at Utah Lake, and evenings inhaling fry sauce-doused fries with my family. There was a rhythm, a sacredness to the simplicity of it all.

But for every perfect sunset behind sandstone arches, there was the creeping sense that my town—and by extension, my life—came with rules too big to dodge. LDS culture, in its best form, is warm and all-encompassing. In its more suffocating guise, it’s like dating someone who reads your texts over your shoulder: technically well-meaning, but an exhausting lack of boundaries. My home gave me care and connection, but it also whispered (shouted) expectations about who I was supposed to be.

Things only got weirder when I hit my teen years. While kids in coastal cities compared promposals, we took dating tips from mutual church dances and elaborate choreographed skits. Here’s one vivid memory: A guy I barely knew "wooed" me by performing a poorly-rehearsed backflip as Journey’s "Don’t Stop Believin’" played faintly in the background. (Yes, I laughed… but no, I didn’t date him.)

Living in a tight-knit LDS community felt a little like being on Facebook before it was cool: fine while it lasted, a nightmare when you wanted privacy. Everyone knew everything—your wins, your losses, your awkward flirtations at seminary. For a kid like me, who had more questions than answers, it could feel stifling. And yet… there was safety in familiarity.

Act Two: Can You Really Quit Home?

I was convinced, for a time, that freedom smelled faintly like Denver during grad school. For two glorious semesters, I swapped Utah’s family parties and morning scripture study for the chilly anonymity of a new city. Everything was bigger and wider—I hiked alone, walked downtown at night without running into anyone I knew, and ordered coffee without feeling like someone was watching from the other side of a window. For once, space felt real.

But here’s the catch: Space gets lonely. Somewhere between late nights finishing research papers and politely declining invitations to rooftop parties (they didn’t serve fry sauce!), I started craving pieces of the world I had left behind. My childhood parish hymnals. The overuse of "bless her heart" in my old neighborhood. The way the sun burns hot over Great Salt Lake and splays neon pink across the valley. The pull of "home" might frustrate you, but it’s sneaky—you notice it most when it isn’t there.

When I moved back to Salt Lake City, I told myself it wasn’t permanent. Spoiler alert: That was seven years ago. Turns out, finding a new home isn’t always about geography. Sometimes it’s about letting your relationship with the old places evolve.

Act Three: Lessons from Loving and Loathing Home

Here’s something I’ve learned over countless awkward LDS mixers, post-hike crying sessions, and arguments with my GPS while navigating Utah’s maze of identical suburban blocks: A love/hate relationship with home is kind of like dating someone who’s mostly right for you. It’s infuriating, nuanced, but loaded with potential if you give it room to grow.

1. Let Home Be Yours, Not Theirs.

Growing up, I spent a lot of time trying to conform to one version of Salt Lake City life—the one my church, neighbors, and community thought I should lead. It’s only recently that I’ve realized those labels don’t define me. You don’t have to stay in love with all of home to claim the pieces you do cherish. The mountains can be yours, even if you’re not into Sunday potlucks. It’s okay to rewrite the script.

2. Home Grows (If You Do).

Turns out, you can’t quit home because, like breakups and bangs you regret, it weaves its way into who you are. Moving away helped me see that my frustration wasn’t with mountains or religion or routine; it was a reflection of the limits I’d placed on myself. When you stop defining home by its flaws and start embracing what it could be, a funny thing happens—it starts to mirror you back as you really are.

3. It’s Okay to Love and Hate at the Same Time.

Relationships are messy, whether they’re romantic or geological. Loving home doesn’t mean ignoring what drives you nuts—like the fact that every street name seems to include "Temple" or that fry sauce remains way too underrated outside the state. Lean into the contradictions. That nuanced middle is where the magic happens.

Epilogue with a Sprinkle of Hope

These days, I hold my love/hate relationship with Utah a little closer to my chest. I grumble about the long winters, the nosy neighbors, and parts of tradition that still trip me up. But I also know this place has shaped me in ways that I never could have predicted. It’s simple and complicated, comforting and maddening, much like falling in love with someone who’s just as flawed and wonderful as you are.

So if you’ve got mixed feelings about your hometown—or even about yourself—you’re not alone. Home’s not a perfect match, nor is it supposed to be. And honestly, the imperfections are what make it worth sticking around... or leaving... and maybe, just maybe, finding your way back again.

And if that doesn’t work, there’s always fry sauce.