By: Katie Bennett

After forty-six years of striving, learning, yearning, billing, yelling, doing all the things to build my business and my family, the canyons of Utah were a rare opportunity for spaciousness, self-reflection, and growth. Without electricity, running water, or internet access, we filled our days meeting basic needs and surviving.

As we all navigate excruciatingly difficult times, I struggled with reporting on lessons learned from the abundance and beauty of nature, connecting with others, and asking for help. Too many of us are living in uncertainty right now, with threats of lost funding, closing programs, letting people down, and failure all looming. Yet that brutal, beautiful week taught me that leadership isn’t about charging ahead, claiming to know the right path; it’s about navigating the unknown with others, encouraging them (and yourself) to take one more step even when everything hurts, but also knowing when to stop, rest, and care for ourselves and each other. It’s about finding humor in the absurd, patience in the hard parts, and celebrating tiny victories—like only peeing on one of your shoelaces this time.

I asked ChatGPT to write me this poem. May you all find water in the desert.

Water in the Rock
—For the Canyons, and the Chaos

In a crease of the canyon, red stone and sky,
I found a puddle, still as a sigh.
Rain from a week ago, held in a bowl
Of slickrock that time had carved with a soul.

I stooped like a monk, with bottle in hand,
Avoiding the grainy, treacherous sand.
Skimmed from the top—no swirl, no stir—
Just a quiet communion, no need to confer.

But as I filled up, all eager and wise,
My guide just smiled with sunburned eyes:
“You carry what you gather,” he said with a grin,
“And every drop adds weight to your skin.”

Ah.

The lesson hit harder than thirst ever could:
It’s not just the finding—it’s knowing you should.
The load that you lug when you think you’ll prepare
Might sink you before you get anywhere.

So I sat, and I drank, and I didn’t hoard.
And the canyon was silent, but I felt restored.
Because water, like peace, isn’t meant to be chained—
It’s a gift when it comes, not to be claimed.

And look, aren’t we all wandering now,
In a drought of certainty, wondering how
To be both scared and soaring with hope?
To tie on our boots and still somehow cope?

We sip from puddles of joy and despair,
Scoop what we can from thin desert air.
We learn not to carry more than we must—
To walk with a balance of burden and trust.

Yes, the country’s cracked like a canyon wall,
And leaders fall silent, or just let us fall.
But still there is water—pooled out of sight,
In shaded crevasses, catching the light.

We find it in stories, in strangers, in song,
In being both broken and moving along.
It’s not wrong to be happy while everything shakes,
It’s not wrong to laugh while your very heart breaks.

So drink when you can, and drink with care.
Know what to carry, and what to spare.
The desert is harsh, but it’s honest and wide—
And still, even now, there is water inside.