Rae sat on her porch, gazing over the holler. The sinking sun lit up the hill tops – thousands of vibrant trees against a brilliant blue sky. A family of deer made their way out of the forest to the creek below. Birds and frogs sang their evening choruses, a hummingbird visited the hibiscus bush nearby, and her two cats were sprawled out by her feet. How could such a beautiful place be so cruel? If you had told her six months ago that she would be living in eastern Kentucky, she would have snorted and rolled her eyes. She and her husband were saving their money for Colorado, where they had honeymooned; she had absolutely no desire to live anywhere east of the Mississippi. But then her husband lost his job, they were evicted from their apartment, and next thing she knew, all their belongings were in a storage unit save what they could fit in her SUV, and they were driving 13 hours south. A good friend of her husbands had opened his home to them and offered them jobs. It wouldn't be so bad, Rae had told herself during the drive. The weather would be warmer, and there were plenty of mountains for hiking. It would be an adventure, and she loved adventure. It was an adventure, all right. A month after they arrived, her mother died. A few weeks after that - the same week they were moving into their new place - changes in the Department of Energy caused them to lose their jobs. A few weeks after that, a flood wreaked havoc on their new town. And a few weeks after that, her husband – a recovering addict – relapsed. In the span of just three months, they had gone from a comfortable life of financial security and dreams of living in Colorado to a state of emotional anguish and financial destitution that required their church's support. Why was this happening? What did it all mean? As if those changes hadn't been devastating enough, living in eastern Kentucky was more of a culture shock than she'd been prepared for. They were in far eastern Kentucky – just 30 minutes from the West Virginia border. Coal country. A land rife with poverty and opioid addiction. A land dotted with dilapidated houses and abandoned vehicles. A land where the average wage was $12 an hour, but the average electric bill was $250 a month, car insurance ranged from $200 - $500, and the county governments were too corrupt to make any effective, lasting changes. A land where even the locals asked her “Why did you move here?” That was a good question. Why did anyone live here? Why would anyone stay in a place where it often felt like both the weather and the government were trying to kill you? Because of the people and the culture. Living in Appalachia was like stepping back in time. The people still held the same values most of society had before the invasion of the internet and social media. Mornings were meant for sipping coffee on front porches, the dollar did not define your worth, and conversation was plentiful. Human connection was more important than wherever you were in a hurry to get to. Neighborhoods were communities – the way she imagined they had been 200 years ago – because when the roads flooded and the wind took out your power – your neighbors were all you had. There was a good reason people living out in the hollers said, “God willing and the creek don't rise.” She and her husband would have been homeless and hungry if it hadn't been for their church and their neighbors. The church had paid their bills, its patrons had given them clothes, and when she'd reached her lowest point – crying on her kitchen floor, completely hopeless and ready to move home – her neighbors had filled her freezer with meat and her pantry with canned goods. She had come to understand that when someone said, “holler if you need anything,” they truly meant it. The people of Appalachia were the most generous, salt of the earth people she had ever known. And maybe that's why God had sent her to eastern Kentucky. Before living here, she hadn't known it was possible to both love and hate a place, to become both harder and softer at the same time. Their trials had made her able to endure more, but the people had taught her empathy and compassion. It was wild to think that six months ago, she hadn't known a place like eastern Kentucky existed. Appalachia, with enough biodiversity and moisture to classify it as a rain forest and a population of family-minded people who would literally give you the shirts off their backs, was how America was supposed to be – how she imagined it had been when people first settled here and dreamed the American Dream. This cast-aside region of the country was living proof that true humanity still existed, that the entire human race hadn't been sucked into the social media AI-fueled matrix. That is why people stayed here. This was real life. This was love, and faith, and hope. And she just might have fallen in love with it enough to not leave it.

All right, I will finally admit it. I am falling in love with this area. I didn't know if it would be possible after the hell we'd been through earlier this year, but I had also never experienced spring in the Appalachian mountains. Now you might be thinking, 'How amazing can it be?" and to be honest, I wondered the same thing when people kept telling me "wait 'til spring." Spring is spring, right? Trees and flowers bloom, birds come back, the weather warms up, people come outside, etc. Yes - there's that -- but magnify it. We are in the midst of old mountains that are covered in thousands and thousands of trees, and when their new leaves unfurl, they are the brightest, most surreal shade of yellow-green I have ever seen. There are more flowering trees than I've ever seen or smelled before - light purple, dark purple, red, fuchsia, white - and their fragrance is so strong that entire swarms of bumble bees feast on them. There are all different kinds of wildflowers along the ditches and creeks and hillsides - little red ones, white ones, purple ones - it has become a treasure hunt of sorts to see if I can spot one I haven't seen yet. And the birds - oh my gosh, the birds! Every morning I awake to the most amazing, peaceful, joyous chorus of birds - dozens of different types of birds, all greeting the glorious morning sun as it lights up the mountainside. It is absolutely breathtaking, and makes me so grateful to live here. I have also fallen in love with the people. It took awhile to adjust, but once I did, I realized how much happier and comfortable I am here. Life is hard here, but you never have to be anxious or afraid, because everyone is (or has been) struggling, and everyone is willing to help you. Everyone is so incredibly approachable and willing to have a conversation with you. There is no judgment, no anxiety, no pretentiousness. You are who you are, and everyone accepts that and loves you. It's the most wonderful feeling. The crazy thing about this area that I can't get over is the juxtaposition of natural beauty and man-made garbage. I won't try to sugarcoat it - it is dirty here. It is full of dozens abandoned and broken down houses, heaps of garbage, rusted vehicle frames long-forgotten and grown over by weeds, crumbling roads and piles of mud from frequent flooding. The wages are heartbreakingly low, the utilities devastatingly high, and the infrastructure lacking if not completely absent. BUT - if you can look past all that, and look at the actual people, at their hearts and their courage and their kindness, and really take a moment to enjoy the soul-piercing peace of the mountains, the trees, the flowers, the creeks, the birds, and the fresh air -- you can't help but fall in love with this place too. I am so glad I came here.

Is it possible to fall in love with a place after you've seen it at it's worst? Is it possible to enjoy a place after you've experienced so much sorrow and heartache in it? I am in the process of figuring that out. Spring has arrived in eastern Kentucky, and it is beautiful. The trees are bright green and purple and pink, wildflowers grace the hillsides, and the weather is warm. As always with spring, there is that glimmer of hope, that light at the end of the dark tunnel of winter, that breath of fresh air that enables you to face another day with a little more vigor than the last. These past four months have felt like far longer and given me a beating that has brought me to my knees...but I am still here. I am still here, and on this spring evening, sitting on my porch, with the birds signing, the creek gurgling below, and storm clouds building up over the mountains, I am able to do some reflecting on what I've been through and what God might be trying to teach me. Both the Bible and the Book of Mormon say that we must be meek, humble and submissive like a child in order to grow in God's grace. I have always considered myself to be humble (maybe that means I'm prideful?) and grateful for what I have, but these past few months have truly shown me how many things in this world we take for granted. I know this is something us humans hear quite often, such as "don't take clean water for granted," but here are a some things that truly never crossed my mind until I came here. - Screens in windows. - Having a laundromat less than 30 minutes away that actually has working machines that don't tear up your clothes. - Automatic car washes - Owning more than 5 shirts and 2 pairs of jeans - Nice fitting jeans - Having more than one vehicle - A toaster that actually obeys the setting you put it on - Meat to eat - Makeup - Mouthwash - Running water / clean water / water pressure - Two-lane roads - Guard rails - A world free of natural disasters - Being able to afford vitamins - Decent hair cuts - Being able to eat out (you know you're broke when you can't even afford Taco Bell) - Having enough gas to make it to your next pay check - The DMV (one place for all your car needs instead of two) - A quality coffee shop - Aldi (or any decently-priced grocery store that isn't Walmart) - TV & Music services - Affordable utilities - A high enough wage that actually allows you to pay your rent and bills. - A local government that actually cares about and invests in its community I know that I have never lived anywhere else other than here and Wisconsin, but living here has shown me that Wisconsin is an incredibly safe and affordable place to live. I do miss those qualities. But - as tough as it has been here - I am also grateful I am having this experience. This area is incredibly beautiful, and the variety of flora and fauna is astounding. Every morning I am awakened by a chorus of different birds, and every evening I am lulled to sleep by a cacophony of frogs among the babbling creek. Every hike we take uncovers new mushrooms and flowers and trees we've never seen before. I often feel like an explorer, discovering a new place for the first time. So, circling back - is it possible to fall in love with a place that has caused you so much pain? Possibly. Even if I don't, I'm going to do my best to be in the present moment, and keep my eyes and heart open to whatever it is that God is trying to teach me.

Sometimes we just need to cry. We need to cry because life is hard. Because it's filled with heartache, sorrow, grief, anxiety, depression, anger, fear, loneliness, and pain. Because it isn't what you imagined, what you hoped for, what you planned for. We need to cry because society is broken. Because we were promised the world if we went to college and got good jobs...but then when we were ready to enter the workforce, there were no good jobs and our degrees didn't matter. So we were left in our menial jobs, hoping for a brighter economic future, but it never came. We cry because those of us who didn't come from healthy, affluent families are left in the dust to struggle, to keep trying and trying and never getting ahead because we can't keep up with the collapse of society. Sometimes we need to cry for what once was... for a time you knew wouldn't last forever, but you didn't realize how much you would miss it, how it would leave a bittersweet ache in your heart. How you would give almost anything to go back to that moment when everything was okay and the world wasn't terrifying. Sometimes we need to cry because everything you do just isn't good enough. No matter how many hours you work and fake smiles you plaster on your face to appear acceptable to society, it's just never good enough. No one ever knows what you're truly going through, nor do they want to because everyone has their own problems and demons they're struggling with. Everyone says it's okay to have a bad day, but is it really? What about several bad days in a row? And what happens when you can't afford your medications that help you feel better, so you turn to other things that aren't deemed "acceptable" by society? Is it more acceptable to hole up in your house and never come out? To refuse to socialize because you can't summon the strength to be personable? Or to be rude and snappy because you're struggling to regulate your emotions? Which of these options is the most accepted by society? Sometimes you just need a good cry because there's nothing left to do...there's nothing to say that anyone will understand...there's nothing you can write that will make you feel better...you just need to cry, to let the pain physically leave your body...and that's okay. God gave us emotions and tears for a reason. Sometimes emotions are physical, and need to be released. And that's okay. Let yourself cry. Let all the pain out...and know that tomorrow is a new day...and hopefully it won't be as painful.

This place is wild. It's wild and unpolished, the last untamed area of the United States, as if time has stood still since the days of Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone. I don't think there is any number of country songs, documentaries or articles that can embody what it truly feels like to live here...to stand in the midst of thousands of acres of ancient, eroding ridgelines and tall, decaying trees. To walk along rutted mountain paths, wondering where they used to go and what they were used for. To drive past little crumbling shacks and eroded family tombstones tucked away on hillsides, wishing they could tell you their stories. To look up at a sky so blue it hurts your eyes, and gaze over shades of blue mountain tops that make you feel tiny. Living here comes with its struggles. The houses are cobbled together and the vehicles falling apart; the winding, one-lane holler roads are not maintained well; the garbage service is unreliable. Everything is covered in dust or mud, all of the time. I have worn my hiking boots more than any other pair of shoes I own and I have to sweep every day because of the dirt tracked in. Housing is cheap but utilities and car insurance are some of the most expensive in the country, due to dangerous driving and corporate monopolies taking advantage of people. Roads being plowed in the winter is not a guarantee, nor is running water, so people are always prepared to be house-bound for several days at a time. Like I said - it's as if time stopped here 200 years ago. I have yet to figure out why God sent me here. Most days it feels like I am just being tested, as if He is letting me explore a different part of my personality - the wild, mountain-girl side. As a kid I loved the book "My Side of the Mountain," and now I actually live on the side of a mountain. Do I have what it takes? Do I truly have what it takes to be tough, to be self-reliant, to live without life's luxuries? This area may be poor in monetary resources, but the people are rich in love and kindness. I have honestly never met more friendly, generous people. I know they're that way because it's the only thing that keeps them going out here in this wild, unpredictable land - this land that was raped by the coal companies, taken advantage of by the corporations, and then forgotten by the rest of America. All they have are each other, and they take care of each other. That is the most beautiful thing I have seen out here. Whether or not I truly fall in love with this place has yet to be determined. No one ever said that trying new things was easy. But every new thing and trial holds a lesson, and I know that no matter what happens in the end, I will be grateful I experienced Kentucky.