What doesn't kill you makes you stronger

I took my three-month-old son on his first hike the other day. It’s a trail I know well, but I hadn’t been on it in a while. For the past year, I’ve been too pregnant or too newly postpartum to imagine climbing anything.

But I love this hike. I’ve carried my first child up it many times before, so I know where the path narrows, where it gets steep, and where the view begins to open up. And yet, as I took those first steps with my new son against my chest, it felt different.

As we climbed, my thoughts kept drifting to two summers ago, when this hillside burned.

I remember it clearly. My partner, my eldest son, and I were driving home when we saw flames. At first, we couldn’t tell what we were looking at. Then it became clear; there was a wildfire just a few miles from our home.

The neighborhoods around us were evacuated, and firefighters worked hard to contain it. By the time the blaze was extinguished, acres of brush and grass were gone.

As I walked that same trail now with my second son, I thought about the scorched ground just beyond the ridge. Much of the damage sat just out of view. And yet… I knew what had happened here. I knew what the land had endured. And I was in awe of the regeneration, resilience, and new growth.

Like this trail, motherhood has made me grow in ways I could never anticipate. But it hasn’t been easy growth. It’s been painful, exhausting, and disorienting. Both of my pregnancies were hard. The first weeks of postpartum were even harder (hello, mastitis). Much like a fire, it stripped me bare. I was burned down to my roots. And it was because of that hardship that I discovered how strong I actually am. It’s because of that hardship that I found that growth I never could have anticipated.

When I reached the top of the trail, I slowed, taking in the view of the city in front of me. I couldn’t help but think about the toxic, polluted haze that often envelopes our valley. Climate change in Salt Lake City rarely announces itself as a single dramatic disaster. Instead, it shows up as hotter summers that dry out the foothills and increase the risk of fire (like the one that burned this hillside). It shows up as reduced snowpack in the mountains, reducing the region's water supply. It shows up in toxic, polluted air due to the exposed lakebed of the Great Salt Lake.

But it’s not all doom and gloom. Taking it all in, I also can’t help but have hope. The view reminds me that growth is not about waiting for conditions to return to perfect. It is about moving forward with awareness, kindness, action, and intention. It’s about working towards the change you want to see around you.

Walking back down the trail, I realized that this is what true resilience looks like: not returning to what was before, but embracing and moving forward from all that burned.

This hillside I’m so familiar with will never be exactly as it was before the fire. But neither will I. And the truth is, I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to be stagnant. I want to keep growing. I want to keep moving forward. I want to keep discovering more.