Of all the life changes I’ve made, moving forty-five minutes away is not that impressive a feat.

I wanted to be brave.
I wanted to move to Portland. Or Seattle. Or Denver.
Somewhere with good food, liberal people, and a coffee scene that could double as a personality.

But I wasn’t that brave.

I love my family. I wanted to stay close to them. And I wasn’t ready to abandon the small, carefully assembled group of friends I’d spent years building from scratch—like emotional IKEA furniture, but with missing instructions and no Allen wrench.

Still, the move earned me something I desperately needed: privacy.

Which I had not enjoyed while living with my mother in the basement, and my dad occasionally materializing in the yard to mow the lawn without warning.

Not to complain. It was wonderful they were around.
But a heads-up would’ve been nice.

Sneaking a man out the back door at thirty is not aspirational. It’s not a phase. It’s not quirky. It’s a cry for scheduling boundaries.

Alan had already moved to Salt Lake with Monica, so I wouldn’t be entirely alone. And since all but two of the ladies had died—meaning my mom no longer needed the beauty shop—my parents decided to sell the house.

I packed up my life. What wouldn’t fit into my apartment went into Alan’s gigantic garage, where it would live a long, quiet life, aging gracefully and judging me silently.

I found an adorable apartment.

It was part of a large home built in the early 1900s. During the Depression, the owners—like so many Americans during that time—had realized optimism was expensive and split it into four apartments.

It had wood floors.
Bay windows.
Hand-painted ceiling tiles.
And rent that didn’t require a cosigner or divine intervention.

I found my camera and snapped a few pictures, though the lens was dusty or smudged after years of neglect—much like me, emotionally.

That first night, after everyone helped me move my things in, I started noticing some details.

The beautiful dark wood floors were splintered.
The bay windows leaked cold air like the frozen food aisle at a grocery store.
The “walls” separating the apartments were essentially decorative—painted cardboard masquerading as privacy.

It was cold.
It was dark.
And it had started to rain.

I was exhausted. I was ready to call it a day.

But my belongings were still in boxes. And I couldn’t find my sheets.

So, I just… sat down on the floor and cried.

It felt overwhelming. I didn’t know this city. I hadn’t spent much time here—just the occasional special dinner or play—but I didn’t know where the nearest grocery store or gas station was, and in that moment, that felt catastrophic. Civilization is fragile when you don’t know where to buy milk.

Eventually, I found some blankets and went to sleep, curled up with Bingley and Betty, who were adjusting far better than I was. Cats thrive in emotional collapse. It’s their brand.

The next morning, I got up and drove to work.

In Orem.

I didn’t tell anyone I had moved.

Except my family, obviously. And Mindy. And the extremely nice servers at the Mexican restaurant I went to twice a week, who knew my order and my emotional state.

My employer was none the wiser.

I was afraid I’d made a terrible mistake. I now had rent to pay and a long commute to a job I hated. But I kept putting in applications, hoping I could find something in Salt Lake, and focused on getting settled.

I found a nearby grocery store. A gas station.
The cats found their new favorite places: the top of the bedroom closet, where they could watch me and the world, and the radiator in the living room—the only warmish spot in the apartment.

It was cold. And I couldn’t control the heat. The apartment next door controlled the thermostat for the entire building, and apparently, they did not believe in winter. Or warmth. Or mercy.

So, I adapted. Space heaters. Electric blankets. Plastic over the windows. Pioneers would’ve been proud. Laura Ingalls Wilder would’ve nodded solemnly.

I started driving around more, learning the city, feeling steadier. Less like I’d made a mistake and more like I’d made a choice.

Three months after I moved, I finally found a new job.

In Salt Lake.

I wish I could remember turning in my notice at my old job. It must have sparked panic. I had trained my “backup,” but months later she was still asking how to complete even the smallest task. They were wildly unprepared for my absence, and I hope Mehana felt stress. And fear. And maybe a light eye twitch.

I was supposed to start my new job the day after their company Christmas party, but I was still invited—and I won one of the prizes in the drawing, which felt like an omen. Or at least a polite welcome.

The job was as a payroll coordinator at a retail company that sold cell phones. They had just been acquired by a larger corporation and were preparing to grow.

Fast.

Ann had been the sole payroll processor. She hired me, Melanie to run payroll alongside me, and Angela to handle payroll for the smaller sister companies under the same umbrella. The four of us were crammed into a small conference room, computers and monitors set up around a central table like we were launching a very boring space mission.

One of my responsibilities was calculating commissions.

Which meant Excel.

By this point, I had fallen deeply, irrationally in love with Excel.

I Googled formulas recreationally.
I learned shortcuts I didn’t need yet, just in case the future called.

Ann was a master. She taught me new tricks.

Overnight, the payroll grew from 300 semi-local employees to 3,000—nationwide.

Commissions became a nightmare.

Different plans by zone. District. Store. Job title.
Different payouts tied to goals that changed monthly.

It required creativity. Precision. Logic.

And I loved it.

I also had a boss who liked me. She took me out to lunch. Had me over when she threw parties. She made curtains for my apartment. And she didn’t throw me under the bus when commissions were wrong—which was usually because someone had changed the goals and forgotten to mention it to payroll.

Melanie and I mostly got along.

Angela and I wanted to murder each other from day one—which I assume was because we were deeply, offensively similar. Like two mirrors shouting, “No, you calm down.”

With my employee discount, I finally got my first smartphone.

I had resisted the upgrade. I’d been perfectly happy with my first phone—a Nokia meant only for calls—and only upgraded when it became clear that texting was not a fad. I got the fancy kind with the slide-out keyboard, but texts were ten cents each, so I used them sparingly.

The new employer was an AT&T retailer, and we were expected to support the brand. So, I moved off my parents’ Verizon family plan and signed up for my own account.

Adulthood.

This required a new phone, and I could no longer delay the inevitable.

I pulled the sleek new device out of the box and felt intimidated. I sat down to read the manual, got overwhelmed immediately, and decided to go take a walk instead. This is still my primary problem-solving strategy.

I wandered down the hill a few blocks and stumbled into Gilgal Garden—a strange little park that had once been the backyard of an eccentric masonry contractor who built a shrine to Mormonism. Including a sphinx with the face of Joseph Smith.

Naturally.

I pulled out my phone. After a few minutes of poking around, I figured out how to open the camera.

And I took a picture.

It was the first of thousands I would take over the next few years.

And without realizing it yet, I had found the thing that would change everything.