I grew up in a happy home in small-town St. George, Utah. My mom still likes to tell the story of how the city officially got 911 during our first year there. We lived downtown only a few minutes away from all of the outdoor fun that southern Utah offers. Dad was a seminary teacher, Mom was a full-time mom, and I am the oldest of four boys. You could say we grew up outside, and, rain or shine, you could always find the Payne boys hiking, playing in the rivers, or building forts in the backyard. Throughout my entire life, my mom has always been there for my brothers and me. We all share an unshakeable bond built through what we went through together.

I remember always being sick growing up. During these painful and difficult times, my mom was a constant support and never left my side. From ages 6-12, my life was filled with regular visits to doctors and hospitals. As a little boy, I distinctly remember overhearing the doctors tell my mom that I likely wouldn’t make it. I was sick enough that there were days where I only had enough energy to crawl to the top of the stairs. It was then, in the thick of being sick, I was instructed to go on a "no preservative" diet. Being as young as I was, I had no idea what that meant. I was in for a 2-year-long surprise. I became a connoisseur of only the finest baby foods. The diet was difficult — but with the support of my sweet mom, not only did I pull through, I miraculously began to recover. Despite many doubts, I was able to return from a previously inescapable health predicament. 

My mom helped me through those years of sickness and saw me through to the other side. She was always someone that I knew would be there for me, but the time came for our roles to switch in 2009. When I was 15 and I had just gotten my learner permit, my mom became violently sick. I remember finding her in the basement of our rental in southern Utah. After several hospital visits and many doctors, we were told that three aneurysms had been found in my mom’s brain, and by some miracle they hadn’t burst yet. They explained that surgery could fix the problem, but that it came with the high probability of considerable consequences. After much thought, my mom decided to go ahead with the preventative surgery.  

I remember the morning Mom left for the procedure. There was a chance she wouldn’t be coming back. I remember the gravity of the situation hitting me in the chest like a battering ram and feeling my stomach drop to the floor as she walked out the door bound for the hospital. My brothers and I looked down at the handwritten cards from her saying a potential last goodbye. Our mom is a fighter and luckily came home. That operation, however, was the beginning of many years of physical trial for her. 

It wasn’t long after her initial surgery that my parents separated, and my brothers and I decided to live with our mom. And it wasn’t much longer after that when my mom went in for another surgery. I was in high school, in the middle of my junior year, at Pleasant Grove High. This surgery, like the first, had a long recovery time. In a manner of months, I went from mild-mannered Skyler, the high school student, to the head of the house. I would wake the boys up, feed them, make lunches, get them to school, make sure the youngest had a sitter, take myself to school, run to the hospital during lunch to be with Mom, get back to class, beat the boys home, help with homework, do my homework, make dinner, do bedtime stories, get everyone ready for bed, and repeat. It was a hard and hectic time, but it brought us closer. We knew that we could tackle whatever was thrown at us if we did it together. 

I eventually dropped all of my extracurricular activities so I could better help at home. I worked odd jobs and did everything that I could to do my part. I even created the fake persona of “the fat man” who would leave notes of encouragement and cash for my mom at the hospital and on the porch to be used for bills. There were nights where I would hear my youngest brother crying, and I would crawl into his room, pick up my 4-year-old little brother, and rock him while he cried for Mom and Dad — crying for them to come home.

 I remember the day Mom came home. Our friends, family, and neighbors all came together to support us in any way they could. People were always at the house. They were helping with meals, laundry, yard work, and more. We were so lucky to have so many good and close friends. At night, however, we had the house to ourselves. On one of these nights, I woke up to my mom calling my name in agony. She said, “Sky, I need help!” She was sobbing and in so much pain. I couldn’t understand anything else she was trying to say through the sobbing and tears. So, I picked her up and carried her to the car. As we got to the car, she was limp, moaning, and vomiting. I was terrified. I took her in my arms and carried her into the emergency room. She was whisked away from me, and the doctors took over. I sat in the waiting room with my head in my hands, scared, not knowing what was going to come next, unsure if Mom was going to be all right and unsure if I was going to have the strength to be what my family needed me to be. So much had happened in so short a time. Just a few months prior, I had been living what everyone else might call a “normal life.” It was a soul-stretching time, where I had to grow up, decide who I was, and what I was going to be. 

It was during this time that I decided I was going to serve a mission for my church. I served for two years as a proselyting missionary in the Czech Republic, speaking a foreign language in a beautiful land. In the beginning, it was hard for me to focus on the work I was doing. I was distracted by the hardships that I knew my family was enduring at home, but, as time went on, it became easier. 

I had a plan while I was gone. I didn’t know much, but I did know for certain that I was going to return home, marry my old girlfriend, and join the military. Six months before I came home, my ecclesiastical leader called me to his home and suggested that I begin figuring out what I would do when the time came to go home. He suggested that I do some digging and let him know what I found. I left the meeting, keeping those two things I knew for certain in mind: 1. Marry my girlfriend, 2. Join the military. I walked down from his home apartment and stopped by the mission headquarters to get my mail before returning home. In my mail was a letter from my girlfriend, informing me that I had been dumped. Not long after that, I determined that I would not be serving in the military, but, instead, I strongly felt that I should attend Utah Valley University and study finance. 

With the help of my mom, I came home from my mission, and the next day found myself in block classes at UVU. I walked into the university that first day, not even sure what building I was in. As I walked in the doors, I came face-to-face with a beaming Luke Dean, the greatest recruiter the world has ever known. He happened to be the program director for the Personal Financial Planning Program, and quickly helped me get registered for the program and introduced me to a group of students that could help me succeed. I began working on the intro course for my newly found program while I was working on my generals. I found myself enrolled in several classes with my mom, who, after years of physical recovery, had decided that it was time to go back and finish her degree. I look back on and cherish the memories of that time often, memories of my mom and me sharing lunch and cramming for tests on the floor of the LA Building. And memories of when my mom finally walked, and of my own graduation a year later. 

UVU opened its arms to me, my mom, and thousands like us. It took us as we were and gave us the tools to build us into something more. I love my time spent at UVU. I can trace almost every current life situation back to something that originated there, from my job to my beautiful wife and our comical meeting at the Subway on campus. I love UVU. The engaged model of the university, the passion of the professors like Luke Dean, and their desire to see you as an individual succeed. That, for me, is the beauty of Utah Valley University. I came to UVU for reasons that many others do, but I stayed because of the faith it had in me to become something greater.