In 2009, I found myself at a breaking point. I had just suffered a tremendous personal loss, and everything in my life felt unsteady. I needed something different—something healing. So when two of my closest friends were getting married in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, I decided it was time to hit reset. Not just attend the wedding—but plant myself somewhere that had always felt like a second home. As a child, Gatlinburg was where I had vacationed, breathed mountain air, and felt wonder. Now, I was hoping to reclaim a little of that wonder for myself.

I sold what I had left, packed up my Chevy Tracker with clothes and résumés, and drove toward the mountains with nothing but determination and a dream. When I arrived, I didn’t know where I’d stay or how I’d find work, but something about the mountains—the way the early morning light fell across the ridges, the coolness of the air in my lungs, the smell of caramel apples wafting from downtown—told me I was in the right place.

What happened next felt like divine timing. A single conversation on the street with a stranger led to a series of introductions, and by the end of my first week, I had found a job at a zipline company and scraped together just enough to move into a small room with a sticky floor and no shower curtain. I didn’t have much, but I had a start.

And then came the people. From the woman at the hotel desk who gave me a discounted room because she recognized a fellow North Alabamian in need, to the zipline guides who welcomed me into their team and shared their tips so I could buy food and essentials—Gatlinburg’s people became my safety net. Total strangers stepped in with generosity and kindness. Locals showed me what real community looks like.

I fell in love with the place—not just the beauty of the mountains, the way the leaves changed in Cades Cove or the way the mist curled over the ridges in the morning—but the spirit of the people who lived there. They didn’t just offer me a job or a roof. They gave me belonging.

That belonging created a solid enough foundation for me to rise. I took pride in being part of that community, guiding tourists through the treetops on ziplines, doing course checks as the sun rose through the fog. Eventually, I built a network, took on new marketing roles, and found stability for the first time in a long while.

Years later, in 2016, when wildfires devastated Gatlinburg, I knew immediately that I had to go back—not for work or nostalgia, but for the people. I returned to volunteer through the Pigeon Forge Hospitality Association, making calls to help connect displaced families with shelter and sending that data over to the Red Cross.  I wanted to give back whenever or however I could.

I didn’t go back for business. I went back for the people who once held space for me when I had nothing. People who, without fanfare or expectation, helped me find solid ground.

Gatlinburg showed me my own resilience. It gave me hope. And more than anything, it reminded me that the beauty of the mountains isn’t just in the views—it’s in the hearts of the people who call them home.