Where Differences Meet

A personal essay by Shae McCombs

Why do differences frustrate us, like a screech on a chalkboard? The chalk is not wrong and neither is the chalkboard.

You save yourself for the people that you know and trust. You lay out clues when you meet someone, cautiously, like little breadcrumbs in Hansel and Gretel, hoping that someone will follow you into friend-ship.  how it is for me, anyway. I’ve felt that way since I was a baby girl. I don’t play my music in the car with strangers. I swallow my jokes when I meet someone. I let my fake self go out to play just in case something bad happens. But when I play music for someone new, a connection begins. 

 

When Air Becomes Breath

 A Personal Essay by Megan Anderson

Who would true valor see/ let him come hither.../ then fancies fly away/ He'll fear not what men say/ He'll labour night and day/ to be a pilgrim

I read the last few words of When Breath Becomes Air slowly, so as to enjoy every last word to the end. Paul Kalanithi’s wife had to finish his book for him; the antagonist of his story killed him. She told us
about how much he loved and how much he lived to the end. I’m fighting back tears like Paul fought cancer. I’m failing, like he did. No. Paul succeeded. He reminded me why I love and live. He did that by greeting me kindly with raw emotion and sleepless nights and failing health. Like Paul, I watched myself waste away, wondering what would come of it. We’ve never met, Paul and I, but we have walked a lonely path together. He struggled, but he was honest with himself. I think it’s time for me to do the same.

My Faith is Not in My Father

A personal essay by Erin Lee

“I am not the child my father raised, but he is the father who raised her.”

--------

My father is a faithful man. He reads his scriptures daily, attends church every week, and participates in whatever role his local congregation asks of him. I grew up faithful as well—my religion was and is at the core of who I am. As a child, I idolized my father as the pinnacle of spirituality and faithfulness; I emulated him any time I could. So when I found myself questioning whether my father was the man I thought he was, I also found myself questioning my faith.  

How was I to separate my faith in a perfect God from my imperfect mortal father? Where had those roots first begun to intertwine? I read Tara Westover’s memoir, Educated a few weeks into September 2020, and I saw myself in it (the quotes between this essay’s sections are from that book). Though Tara’s upbringing was much more extremist than mine, I understood the battle of faith and family, of love and distance. As I read, I found myself remembering the moments when my father and my spirituality had collided. 

Love is not Love

A personal essay by Lindsay Taylor

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments.

August 28, 2020. 

He was light, yet he was dark. Like the rippling waters of a disturbed lake, hidden beneath the mist of midnight. He was hard to see. It was only with time that I distinguished him, out from behind a persona he’d built like a wall. Little by little, a handhold here and a foothold there, I climbed it. Peered over the edge into the tempestuous abyss. He’d hidden himself with care, wielded a blinding light with skill, to shock the eyes before they could see clearly the man that stood in the shadows.

It wasn’t a marriage. Luckily, it wasn’t a marriage. Not in the truest sense, at least. What it was is an almost-marriage. A near escape. A dream shattered like broken glass; no way to gather the pieces without drawing blood. A broken engagement, as they say.

East of Eating: The Intersection of Steinbeck and Anorexia

 A personal essay by Sophie Plantamura

One girl's war with food, one novel's unexpected significance. 

One of the many products of
my morning smoothie cravings. 

8 am. I wake up with the fortuitous desire to really try and eat more today, paired with the craving for a smoothie. Ready to take advantage of both of these daybreak intentions, I set out to the kitchen, my cold feet cushioned by slippers, my bony shoulders wrapped in my blanket. My blanket drags on the floor as I sleepily turn on the blender. 

First step: almond milk. “Easy,” says the voice in my head, “almond milk only has 30 calories a cup—go crazy!” The same rationale persists as I shove handful after handful of spinach into the blender. But then come the seeds: hemp, chia, flax, all of which my dietitian told me to increase in my breakfast, all of which trigger a tsunami of anxiety in my sick brain. 

The Fear Litany

A personal essay by Janaya Tanner

Seeking to understand fear through examples set by my dad.

I have always known I am a lot like my dad. I knew it when he read all the books I read. I knew it when we liked all the same TV shows. Yet, my dad was always mysterious and different to me in a way I couldn’t understand. Like the Greeks attributing the weather to a pantheon of gods, I attributed my dad’s abilities to magic—a magic I wanted to have. Though reserved, he never seemed shy. He took on new challenges with stoic zeal. It was like fear didn’t affect him at all.

One Christmas break in college, I discovered Dune by Frank Herbert and fell in love with it—the incredible new worlds, the political intrigue, the technology so like magic, the unforgettable characters. I shared my new love with my dad only to find out he had never read it.

Big Canyons and Small Things

A personal essay by Mattea Chipman

“Identity cannot be found or fabricated but emerges from within when one has the courage to let go.”-Doug Cooper

“Mattea, as you get older you will realize that your husband will eventually just turn into his Father.” 

I turned and stared at Craig. 

“Wait,” I thought. “I didn’t sign up for Craig.” 

I pondered that for a long time afterwards. Are we all just splitting images and personalities of our parents? How much do our families define us? 

If I am half of each of my parents I am one of those dollar toy stretchy monkeys, one arm holding onto a cliff, one arm holding to the bank on the other side of a canyon. Stretched thin and dangling in the center. 

My family is the definition of opposites attract. 

It all started at the wedding. It was a disaster, and then a party.

Call of the Wild Things

A personal essay by Lauren Nelson

"And the walls became the world all around." -Maurice Sendak, 'Where the Wild Things Are'

It was 10pm on a Thursday when I found myself racing down Provo Canyon. White lines ticked past until eventually I wasn’t in the Canyon anymore. Mentally picturing the piles of work awaiting me in my apartment, I reluctantly pulled off the throughway and turned around in the Heber City Walmart parking lot. It was time to head back.

Three years ago I was in the Nxai Pan. I was three hours over lumpy, sandy, dung-beetled roads, two hours and fifteen minutes from the last time I saw goats in twig fences. A national park in Botswana, the Nxai Pan was the flattest, most remote place I had ever been, a full four hours from any recognizable civilization. On the drive into the wild, I suddenly found myself surrounded by fifteen giraffes all dotting the circumference of my horizon.

Spiritual Warfare

An essay by Anne Brenchley

"You never know how much you really believe anything until its truth or falsehood becomes matter of life and death to you." -- C. S. Lewis

Growing up in a faithful family from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, meant a few things. By the time I could walk, I knew who God was and that He loved me. By the time I could form sentences, I knew who Joseph Smith was and that God picked him to be special. By the time I was eight, I could speak in front of congregations about why I loved Jesus. By the time I was twelve, I had picked out which temple I would be married in and had a list of required attributed of my future husband.

I had been spoon fed these truths, but it wasn't until I grew older that I decided to look into why I believed these things.

Monsters and Modern Medicine

A personal essay by Hannah Gladwell

Anxiety wasn't the monster under my bed. It was the monster in my head.

Photo of author by Martin Wyall

I was lying in bed a few weeks ago when a dull but persistent ache blossomed in my chest. It began in some unnamed crevice of my anatomy, pulsing with my heartbeat. An isolated symptom and nothing to be concerned about, certainly; nothing but the creaks and groans of a body lived in.

Of course, my mind does not deal in logic. 

Bolts of pain in my chest. Bolts of fear in my brain.

Learning to Love My Sister Again

A personal essay by Mikayla Krupa

"Let her be taken care of: let her be treated as tenderly as may be." - Jane Eyre

Even before she changed, my sister told me often that I would do great things with my life. Her wistful comment that I was a college person and she was only a high school person made a frequent appearance in our late night conversations. Though I quickly offered her the same assurances I always did, praising her witty personality and perfect grades, the memories of lost car keys every morning nagged at my mind. She forgot everything, lost everything, mismanaged her time, upset easily. We both knew that she was right. She was a high school person, and college would be a death sentence. If only I had been the older child. I might have been able to spare her from the mental anguish she would endure for the next three years. 

Scars and Stones in the Fog

 A personal essay by Claire Owens

"A little talent is a nice thing to have if you want to be a writer, but the only real requirement is the ability to remember the story of every scar.” (Stephen King)

My Scar

“How did you get that scar?” Mckenna pointed at the white line across my wrist. 

“Ah,” I turned the white of my underarm towards the ceiling and peered down the mark. It followed my vein up to the edge of my palm. “I got lost after practice once,” I explained, “And the cross-country coach usually locks up the school once everyone’s come back from their run. He’d already closed down everything when I found my way back. While I was climbing over the gate, the chain-link fencing on the top snagged my arm, I guess.” 

“Oh, that’s sort of cool,” Mckenna remarked. “I can’t even imagine you doing something like sneaking onto school grounds.” She laughed. 

I smiled, thinking of the grueling 5ks and worn-out sneakers and foggy mornings. Every week of high school had led up to the climatic Saturday morning meets filled with youthful runners and that humid fog before sunrise. 

Homeland Hurting

A Personal Essay by Stefanie Shepley

With my family falling apart, could I really claim that everything was beautiful and nothing hurt?

Dulles International Airport

The foreign-exchange students and the scuttling businessmen didn’t notice the Toyota shaking in the Virginia heat. The Dulles International Airport rattled with comings and goings this time of year, the ins and outs of a thousand moving people. Moaning goodbyes and excited departures. Too many Toyotas to count.
But this one shook. The fake-leather interior, coated with a fine layer of goldfish crackers, was hollowed out by sobs. The big kind. The heaving and the hawing and the bursting that only comes from utter confusion and panic.

My Playlist #9

a personal essay by Allen Gregory

"The best music transcends your playlist or your CD and moves into a different place in your life, It becomes your companion."  - John Mayer

The earliest Christmas I can remember, at the age of four, while most children had a hoard of toys soon to be forgotten, I got a 3x3 inch brick radio that I didn’t know how to tune, my grandfather tuning it to the first station he could find. 

How pivotal that little dial would be.

The heavy rotation of Led Zeppelin, The Who, and The Beatles were the building blocks for a lifelong love of music.

The Better Part of Valor

A personal essay by Washington C Pearce

That's me, on the left. The calm before the fight really starts

Injury is an inherent risk of life, but some wounds are deeper than skin, and change our lives forever.

Simon Garfunkel’s “The Boxer’ plays on the speakers behind me. I’m trying to exercise again, but the pain in my arm prevents me from moving how I’d like. Every pushup sends bolts of lighting through the nerves, from my elbow to my head, reminding me I’m an idiot. 

Weak. 

I’d failed, justly, and now I’m paying the price in pain. Grunting, I refuse to listen to my arm and push up off the ground another two, three times, before the pain is too great and I roll over, panting. I have to get better, get stronger, or else I will never win again.

George and the Dragon

 A personal essay by Spencer Bates

Confronted with the impending specter of death and the chaos of our universe, I had to relearn what it meant to be a Christian--and what it meant to be human.

A terrible thing, to be as Gods. We stand on this whirling orb, weak, naked little Atlases, a great Red Dragon bearing down on our shoulders with the entire cosmos in his train, all bent upon our destruction day in and day out. What a burden to carry! What a heavy cross! The Atlas of myth towered; we Atlases of reality cower, knees tucked to our chests under the fury of the sky-dome’s onslaught. 

My knees tremble and my heart murmurs under the weight. It is heaviest when my bicycle’s rear tire unexpectedly skids across the steep trail behind me as the world whizzes by, when a semi materializes out of the corner of my eye and into my lane, when the snake’s rattle jumps up in a fury from just under my feet. My heart convulses and my mind spins, and everything else seems a dream. 

Do I bear this weight alone, or have I help?

Demisexuality: What Is It?

 A personal essay by Shoshana Weaver

One girl's journey from feeling broken and different to discovering her demisexuality and how the pieces fit together.

Books are my lifeblood. Their stories have fueled me, shaped me, and inspired me. As a young girl, I read about “Once upon a time”s and “Happily Ever After”s, falling in love and creating a life together. I longed to find that for myself. Like every little girl raised on fairy tales, I dreamt of finding my Prince Charming and a romance of my own.

But when it didn't happen the way I expected, I thought I was broken. Until I found a word that helped me understand more about who I am and why I do the things I do. 

“Demisexuality.” Most people have probably never heard of it. I had never heard of it until I was 22. Some might even say it sounds strange-- my brother once told me it sounds like someone attracted to demi-gods from ancient myths, though that’s not really what it means.

Rambunctiousness, Recklessness, and Restraint

I suppose you could define me by my willingness to forgo sanity and do the stupid and incredibly fun things that could certainly kill me if anything went wrong. I’ve always been reckless, even since I learned to walk and probably before that, I have no doubt that even before I was born I was getting into some kind of catastrophic mess in one way or another. The earliest disasters I caused happened so long ago that the only reason I know they happened is because my parents took pictures. 

"A Picture is worth 1000 words." - Fred R. Bernard 

In my case they seem to repeat the words 'oh no', 'ouch', and 'yikes' a lot.  Yes that's me in a torpedo tube.

Living Authentically (and Loving It?)

A personal essay by Anna Christensen

"It is far better to live your own destiny, duties, and nature imperfectly than to live an imitation of someone else's with perfection". -The Bhagavad Gita

"Let Peace Fill Your Body"-Sage Friedman

There have been points in my life where I preferred to surf the tides of trends and societal norms. I went crazy for chia pets and Lisa Frank folders in the early 2000s, as did my classmates and friends. More recently, I bought velvet scrunchies, a denim jacket, and suede boots at the same time that everyone else did.

More importantly, I've chosen specific paths in my life because that's what everyone else was doing. I applied to BYU, I served a mission, I got married. While I did all of these things willingly, I do know my desire to conform contributed to the confidence with which I made these decisions. During some of these decisions, I seemed to be living "an imitation of someone else's [life] with perfection". All that mattered was that the boxes were checked.

Jump?

A personal essay by Sarah Wiersdorf

Is the little voice telling me that I can't do something sometimes right? 

Photo by Kelli McClintock on Unsplash

Atticus Finch said to Scout, “[courage is] when you know you’re licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what.”

Great quote, isn’t it? But here’s the thing. What things are worth seeing through no matter what? At what point is it best to give up? A part of me, the little, analytical scientist in me, may pretend to know the answer to everything, but I can’t seem to figure out which things are worth being courageous about.

I didn’t question myself as I stood at the edge of a cliff, waiting for my turn to jump. Most of the kids in my teenage youth group were much larger than me, so none of the lifejackets fit me correctly. But I didn’t have to wear the suffocating things. My dad was there to give me permission not to. “Is she a strong enough swimmer?” they asked him. Yeah, yeah, I’d been swimming since before I could walk, thank you very much. Just let me jump.

Running Toward the Future

A personal essay by Breanna Staten

A newly-converted long distance runner uses her endurance skills to cope with her husband's upcoming admittance into medical school.

White earmuffs. New tennis shoes. Two jackets layered up to stave off the chill. My resolve was as fragile as the ice crunching beneath my feet with every labored step. The top of the hill came slowly, slowly. That breathtaking view of Utah valley was veiled by my huffing, puffing breath.

Photo by Hunter Johnson on Unsplash

Whoever said, “You were born to run,” (Florence Griffith-Joyner, I think. Along with every motivational sports commercial ever) must have been at least a mild-mannered masochist. I wasn’t born to run. I was born to read for hours on end and eat grapes and goldfish all afternoon. As I reluctantly turned from that view to finish my run, I thought of the rest of Ms. Griffith-Joyner’s quote. “You were born to run. Maybe not that fast,” (like me), “maybe not as efficiently as others,” (also like me), “but to get up and move, to fire up that entire energy-producing, oxygen-delivering, bone-strengthening process we call running.”

A Time to Speak

A personal essay by Elizabeth Niamh Keeney

“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”

-Ecclesiastes 3  

Even though she is my oldest friend, Bronwyn has never made a lot of effort to keep in contact with me. Even with our friendship of eighteen years, it took a worldwide pandemic for her to initiate communication. I know that people grow apart, people change, and that friends come and go, but I never thought it would be that way with her.

Our friendship has survived a lot. In college, she once stopped talking to me because of a difference in opinion, she apologized and we moved on like normal. During my year-and-a-half in Taiwan, she maybe emailed me once, but we still hung out after I returned home. So, after months of sporadic replies to my messages, she contacts me at her most bored, when she is confined to her living space.

Maybe it’s because we have nothing to talk about anymore because we view our shared past in such different ways.

Sincerest Performance

A personal essay by Benjamin Gappmayer

LIFT me close to your face till I whisper,
What you are holding is in reality no book, nor part
of a book,
It is a man, flushed and full-blooded—it is I—So
long!    - Walt Whitman

Don’t worry. I’m not as ambitious as Whitman was. I don’t expect to be reborn on this page, to crawl out of this paper for some secret meeting with you. Even if I could, I don’t think you would want that, either. I certainly don’t. 

Orion and One Family's Story

A personal essay by Andrew Oakes

Orion used to be the only constellation I ever bothered to look for--and it still is.

"Stars"

How can I do justice to Grandma, and to stars? I am not the first person, neither will I be the last, to have gazed, somewhat stiff-necked, up at the night sky. I am not the first person, neither will I be the last, to have tried expressing (clumsily) the camera obscura holes in our dark, warm night-blanket, which open on unexpected realities on their other sides. I am not the first person, and I will not be the last, to take pride in knowing the constellations, and relaying their stories to my friends. Neither am I the first—as these last several months have taught me—to pay homage to a life which now finds itself among those stars.

An Internal Glow

A personal essay by Kendal Clawson

Two landscape photographers inspired by the same place. One a hero to the other and the other attempting to follow in his footsteps.

"Turning Time" by Peter Lik

“This grand scene needed that special lighting. On day eight, Mother Nature revealed her glory.

I stood in awe right on the edge of the amphitheater, watching the clouds gather, and a stunning reflection on the river below.”-Peter Lik

Unlike my landscape photography hero Peter Lik, I did not camp out eight days to capture my image of the horseshoe bend. But in a way, I’ve been camping out my whole life to capture that landscape. It has been a preparation that I’ve done ever since I heard of the place, saw Lik’s photo and heard of his inspirational experience.

The Forest: An Awakening

A personal essay by Eli Hovey

“44, you’re in!”

I only picked 44 because Nick took my favorite number, so I had to repeat it in double digits. I had just moved to Plymouth last year so of course he always beat me in the popularity contest. The referee told me to toss my PHITEN necklace—my good luck charm—I couldn’t wear it on the court even though I needed it to make me popular.

It was my first travel game on the team: my shorts hung low and bagged below my dry, skinny knees. I tucked into them my bulky, cotton white shirt and the overhanging blue pennant-jersey; I wasn’t allowed to wear just the tank top—plus it was a cold Massachusetts morning anyways so I didn’t mind.

It all happened so fast. Rebound. Full court press. “WATCH OUT FOR THE STRIP.” I felt a bulky presence trailing my heels trying to take the ball away from me. Jump. Shot. Hit. Fall. SNAP.

Home Is Where The Heart Was

A personal essay by Tanner Weyland

“Home isn't where you're from, it's where you find light when all grows dark.” 
― Pierce Brown

Photo by Author

Dip and rise—the ferry slowly undulates across the windy bay as my wife and I stand by the guard rail. Snap a selfie—I try to stand so the wind does not mess up my hair, but—too late. She smiles and I copy it. Why do I feel uneasy? Seattle, the city we are leaving, is literally in sight across the water, but as the waves dip and rise, unease splashes into the boat, wetting my shoes and chilling my feet. Driving off the ferry, over the hills, through quaint towns with white houses and sky-piercing trees, it looks beautiful. But it’s not home.

Later, we sit, watching waves from a log that has been smoothed by one-thousand sittings. Peace. More than I had felt the entire trip, sitting by her with nothing to say. It feels almost like home—when can we go home? Away from the cold water, the winding roads, the encroaching trees that are so beautiful in the daylight but so intrusive at night—where is our home, and how can we get there?

Bloom Where You are Planted

A Personal Essay by Marin Pinkham

Standing out was something that seemed to be a common characteristic of my life, but it wasn't until I physically stood out  that I realized the beauty of differences.

"yellow petaled flowers near the cliff and crystal clear ocean"

My blonde hair billows in the humid but warm breeze as I saunter down the gray sidewalk that parallels the black asphalt road. The aromatic scent of carne asada and grease wafts towards me as I pass the local’s favorite taco joint - Pedro’s Tacos. I think about my possible order - fantasizing over a fish taco smothered in cabbage - as I wander closer to the enticing body of water at my favorite beach - T-Street.

It had been about a year and a half since I had wandered aimlessly through the colorful streets, remarking on the beauty and nonconformity that the houses gave in contrast to one another. It was here that I discovered the beauty that lies in the different, the unexpected. It was here that I realized the danger that comes when an individual strives too hard to fulfill the same future as the next person. It was here where I realized the beauty that I hold in calling T-Street my favorite beach.

Roads, Relationships, and Realizations

A personal essay by Tyler Erickson

Sunset on I-15

“On the highway of life, some ‘drivers’ may cross your lane and you may take ‘the wrong exit.’ Remain watchful until you reach your destiny.” – Assegid Habtewold

The north to south running freeway, I-15, winds through the diverse landscape of Utah. Through mountains high and valleys low it snakes. Beautiful red rocks with snow-capped peaks are seen as faces are pressed on the windows of cars. Yet, from Lehi to Provo, the freeway turns into a wild go-kart track.
This track, about four lanes wide with cars and semi-trucks and motorcyclists all sharing the same roadway, is where flat tires are born, as vehicles navigate the gaping pot-holes – those deep, dark, and endless potholes.

Fiery anger, from endless drivers, leads to curse words combined with inappropriate gestures and usher even the best of saints down a slow and slippery slope.

Leave it Fast

A personal essay by Kate Blatter

“Comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love” -Song of Solomon 2:5

Photo by Michele Blackwell on Unsplash

My favorite fruit to eat is an orange, but you’ll never hear me say that out loud. I was born and raised in the state that produces the most apples in the nation, so for emotional reasons apples will always be my favorite. Although it's probably strange to base your favorite fruit on emotional reasons rather than tangible, palatable ones, in a way I think I have the same relationship with apples that other people have with their state’s sports team. I picture someone showing up to work on a Monday morning and saying, “Did you know the Seattle Seahawks won yesterday??” and I hear echoes of myself proudly saying, “Did you know Washington State University created a new breed of apples??” as if anyone would care as much about Cosmic Crisp apples as someone whose roots are planted firmly in Washington soil. 

The Language of Art

A personal essay by Ashley Hayes

“There are two distinct languages. There is the verbal, which separates people… and there is the visual that is understood by everybody.” - Yaacov Agam.

They used to say I’d be the next Picasso. I wasn’t actually an exceptionally good artist - adults just tend to say cliche things like that when any kid has an ounce of prospective talent in them. Although I had no desire to be anything like Picasso - no one’s face actually looks like that Picasso, come on - comments like that really made me proud, maybe even a bit too proud. Now, I might not have appreciated Picasso's work, but I wish I would have realized earlier that at least his work had something to say; at least it made me feel something (even if it was a feeling of disgust). My doodles of Disney characters and my abysmal block lettering couldn’t make anyone feel anything, even if they were especially good for someone my age.

Ritual

A personal essay by Sara McOmber

The actions I do every day—those mundane, repetitive tasks—create a life not of meaningless routine, but of accumulated, beautiful experiences.


All my life, I’ve been terrified of mediocrity. Failure, though scary, is not nearly as devastating as the
idea that I’ll be just average—someone that people meet and immediately forget. What could be worse than living out a simple life and then passing on, the world not any different for your having lived in it? This fear has led me to a disdain of routine. I’ve believed that days filled with the same actions couldn’t possibly add up to a unique or noteworthy life. If each day is the same, how could my life be special?

And a lot of what I do each day is the same.