The places we remember are never just places: What tourism marketing has taught me about storytelling
- julienavickasautho
- May 9
- 6 min read
About six weeks ago, I stepped into a role I knew absolutely nothing about.
Not communications. Not marketing. Not storytelling. Those things have been woven through my career for years. But tourism? Destination marketing? Economic impact? Hospitality strategy? That world was completely new to me.
In full transparency, accepting the role of Director of Marketing & Communications at VisitBN felt a little terrifying. Not because I doubted my ability to communicate or lead creatively, but because I was willingly stepping into unfamiliar territory. And I think that’s a feeling most people can relate to at some point in their lives.
There’s something deeply vulnerable about leaving behind the comfort of being experienced. About walking away from the version of yourself who already knows the acronyms, understands the systems, recognizes the rhythms of the job, and feels confident speaking the language in the room.
Starting over—even when it’s exciting—can be incredibly humbling. You suddenly become the person asking questions instead of answering them. The person scribbling notes during meetings. The person mentally Googling terms while trying to look calm and competent on the outside.
And that discomfort is hard. But I took the leap anyway. Because sometimes your career grows in the moments where your confidence and curiosity collide.
Leaving comfortable behind
For most of my professional life, my identity felt relatively clear. I was a writer. A teacher. A communications professional. I understood storytelling through the lens of books, classrooms, campaigns, and human connection. I knew how to craft messaging. I knew how to build narratives around emotion. I knew how to communicate ideas clearly and strategically.
There’s comfort in being good at something. There’s comfort in familiarity. There’s comfort in expertise. There’s comfort in knowing where you fit. But there’s also a danger in staying there too long. Because eventually, comfort stops challenging you.
I think sometimes we romanticize bravery as fearlessness, when in reality, bravery usually looks like uncertainty. It looks like taking the meeting anyway. Accepting the position anyway. Walking into the office anyway. Trusting yourself enough to figure things out as you go.
And six weeks into this new chapter, I can already say this with certainty: there is so much growth waiting for us on the other side of trying something new.
One of the things I’m most grateful for during this transition has been the people. Starting a new job is never just about learning responsibilities. It’s learning personalities, workflows, culture, communication styles, expectations, and where you fit within a team dynamic. That can be intimidating anywhere.
But from day one, the VisitBN team has been nothing but welcoming, encouraging, patient, and supportive. And when you’re navigating a brand-new industry, that matters more than people realize.
There’s a difference between being trained and being genuinely supported. Every question I’ve asked has been met with kindness. Every learning curve has been met with patience. Every idea I’ve brought to the table has been met with openness and collaboration.
As someone who walked into tourism with a lot to learn, I don’t think I can overstate how much that environment matters. It’s hard to be brave alone. It’s much easier when people make space for you to grow.
Destinations are about people
Tourism also introduced an entirely different layer to storytelling that I hadn’t fully considered before.
Destinations aren’t really about destinations. They’re about people. They’re about memory-making. They’re about identity. They’re about the emotional connection we build with places and experiences. And six weeks into this role, I think that’s been my biggest takeaway so far: tourism marketing is really the business of human connection.
When people think about tourism, they often think in logistics. Hotels. Restaurants. Events. And attractions. But the deeper I get into this work, the more I realize those things are simply vehicles for something bigger.
People travel to feel something. They travel to reconnect with family. To celebrate milestones. To watch their kids play softball tournaments. To experience nostalgia. To discover somewhere new. To revisit who they used to be. And maybe that’s part of why this role has felt unexpectedly personal to me already. Because at its core, storytelling and tourism are both about emotional experience.
The unexpected joys of a new office
Also—and this feels very important to mention—I now work in an office overlooking an ice rink. Which sounds very “grown up and professional” (a new phrase I’ve come to appreciate!) until you realize it means I get distracted by hockey practices and figure skaters at least ten times a day.
There is something wildly entertaining about trying to answer emails while tiny future Olympians casually spin through the air in the background. Or pausing mid-sentence during a meeting because someone just slammed dramatically into the boards during hockey drills.
Honestly, it’s become one of my favorite unexpected parts of this transition. Because in the middle of learning a new industry and rebuilding confidence in unfamiliar spaces, there’s something wonderful about looking up from your computer and seeing people simply doing what they love.
Falling. Trying again. Practicing. Improving in real time. It feels strangely symbolic, honestly.
And maybe that’s part of why this role has resonated with me so quickly. At its core, tourism isn’t really about places—it’s about people. About passion. About memory. About the experiences that shape us and stay with us long after the moment ends.
The deeper I get into this work, the more I realize storytelling exists everywhere. Not just in books or marketing campaigns, but in communities. Traditions. Shared experiences. The places people return to again and again because of how those places made them feel.
I’ve seen that especially this year as we work through Route 66 Centennial initiatives across McLean County and celebrate one of the most iconic roads in American history.
Because Route 66 isn’t just a road referenced in Disney’s Cars. It’s freedom. It’s adventure. It’s road trips with the windows down. It’s summer memories. It’s neon signs. It’s stories passed between generations.
People don’t emotionally connect to infrastructure. They connect to meaning. And that realization has honestly changed the way I think about storytelling altogether.
As a novelist, I’ve always focused on character emotion and emotional payoff. But now I think more deeply about setting and atmosphere. About how places themselves shape transformation. About how environments carry emotional weight.
As a communications professional, I’ve become even more aware that facts alone rarely move people. Emotion does. Connection does. Story does.
You don’t have to know everything before you begin
And as someone still learning this industry in real time, I’ve also learned something equally important: you do not have to know everything before you begin. You just have to be willing to learn.
That’s probably the part of this transition I’m proudest of so far.
I walked into an industry where I didn’t know the acronyms. Didn’t understand all the moving pieces. Didn’t fully grasp how deeply tourism impacts local economies and community identity. But instead of pretending to know everything, I listened. I observed. I asked questions. I stayed curious. And somewhere in the middle of all that learning, I realized something surprising: all the seemingly disconnected parts of my career actually fit together perfectly here.
My experience as an educator helps me communicate clearly. My background in communications helps me think strategically. My life as a novelist helps me recognize emotional truth. And my work in storytelling helps me see destinations not as places—but as experiences people carry with them long after they leave.
Until recently, I treated those identities separately. But now I see they’ve been building toward the same thing all along. Because whether I’m writing a romance novel, teaching students, recording an episode of the Just Write Julie podcast, or helping tell the story of Bloomington-Normal and McLean County, the core question is always the same: how do we make people care?
The stories people carry with them
Six weeks in, I don’t have all the answers yet. But I do know this: the best storytelling—whether in books, branding, tourism, or life—is never really about the subject itself. It’s about helping people see themselves inside the story.
And next month, communities across McLean County will come together to celebrate 100 years of Route 66—a road that has always been about far more than pavement and mile markers. It’s about nostalgia. Adventure. Reinvention. Family memories. Americana. The stories people still tell decades later.
That’s what makes this work so meaningful to me already. We’re not simply promoting places or events. We’re helping create experiences people will carry with them long after the moment ends.
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