Sitting down with Jennifer Billow, I quickly realize her story is less about titles and job descriptions, and more about a steady practice of showing up. For her kids. Teachers. Neighbors. And for a town that grew from a sleepy ski community into the Park City we know today, with all its bustle, nonprofits, and continual asks.
We had agreed to meet so that I could interview her, but within minutes, the “interview” slipped into something else. After some gabbing and swapping of stories, we’d nearly forgotten why we were there. That’s when I decided to hit “record” on my phone, suggesting I needed to capture her words accurately if I were to do her story justice.
Our conversation began simply. I asked her to start at the beginning.
FROM “JUST ANOTHER STOP” TO A LIFE IN PARK CITY
Jennifer first came to Utah in the late 1980s with Nestlé, expecting it to be another rung on the corporate ladder.
“I really thought it would be just a two-year stop,” she recalls. She was living in Salt Lake City at the time, and the culture felt unfamiliar.
Her husband was already rooted in Park City. He had come out from the east as a ski instructor, fallen for the mountains, and never left. They married and eventually bought a house near the junction, in Silver Springs, around 1992.
Back then, Park City felt like a small town with plenty of open space in between. 224 was “a two-lane highway.” The junction still seemed a world away from Main Street. Bike trails were not yet linked.
“You just couldn't believe you were living in a place like this,” Jennifer says of those early years.
They started their family here. Park City didn’t have a hospital back then, so the kids were born in Salt Lake. They attended Parley’s Park Elementary; there was no preschool yet, just kindergarten onward, and at that point, Jennifer stepped away from corporate life to be at home with her kids.
DISCOVERING THE CLASSROOM
Jennifer’s path into education didn’t begin with a master’s degree or a formal plan. It started the way many quiet revolutions do: She raised her hand to volunteer in her son’s kindergarten classroom, “It was super fun, and also really eye-opening,” she says. She tells the story of a teacher who would not allow plastic knives for frosting cupcakes because they were “dangerous.” It was a small thing, but emblematic. The classroom was its own ecosystem, with its own logic and care.
She also volunteered to teach CCD (Confraternity of Christian Doctrine), the Catholic Church’s traditional religious education program for children, at St. Mary's, where one moment in particular stuck with her. A boy raised his hand, asking, “What is a pr*stitute?”
Jennifer redirected. “Oh, do you mean ‘Protestant’?” “No, I mean a pr*stitute,” he insisted. She finally told him he should probably ask his mom, then offered a soft explanation. The boy’s face lit up. “Oh yeah, I meant ‘Protestant.” Retelling that moment, she laughs, but beneath the humor is a growing understanding.
Education is not a fallback career; it requires grace, timing, emotional intelligence, and a lot of patience in real time, with real kids.
Jennifer took on leadership roles in the PTA, gaining a behind-the-scenes look at how decisions are made and how families can influence their children’s educational experience. Then, the 2008 financial crisis hit. Her husband asked if she could help out financially. With her kids still in school, she looked for something that would fit their schedule
She became a substitute teacher. Even for someone as capable as Jennifer, those first days were humbling,
“Every kid would come up and tug on your shirt,” she remembers. “Teacher, I have to go to the bathroom. Teacher, my stomach hurts. ‘The stress of a substitute, even for kindergartners, was palpable.
‘Teaching math without training, along with managing 20-something small bodies and big feelings, made her aware of what it takes to run a classroom. She watched teachers expertly timing transitions, like how long it takes for 5-year-olds to get snow boots on and line up for recess, then still fit everything into the day.
Her own classroom-management solution was characteristically human and lighthearted: When she was ahead of schedule, she had the kids sing the SpongeBob SquarePants theme together. It filled the gaps.
Jennifer subbed for a few years, then took on a long-term role in physical education while the regular teacher was on maternity leave. That meant every student came through her gym at some point. She saw the entire spectrum of kids and needs, including one girl whose awkward gait immediately worried her. When she raised the concern with the principal, she learned that privacy limitations prevented staff from fully briefing subs. It ‘was another eye-opener: The system is complicated. Children are vulnerable. The adults around them need support.
For a time, Jennifer considered becoming a full-time teacher, but eventually she decided against it. Starting over in her forties, coupled with the reality that teachers struggle even to take a sick day, did not quite fit.
“I was thinking, there has got to be a way I can take my business background and my passion for teaching and public education and blend them,” she recalls.
That's when Park City Education Foundation (PCEF) entered the picture.
FINDING A NORTH STAR
In 2011, Jennifer saw an opening for a marketing and events manager at PCEF. The listing said "262 days”; she assumed it was part-time.
“If you subtract all the weekends from the year,” she laughs, “it is full-time.”
She applied anyway. By then, her son was entering his sophomore year at Park City High School. The foundation's office was in a classroom inside the school, so when he had a serious health emergency just before she started, Jennifer's mother gently pointed out that working in the building might be the best-case scenario. She would be closer to him than almost any other job would allow.
She got the position and walked into a tiny organization of two-and-a-half people: Executive Director Abby McNulty, a half-time staffer, and now Jennifer, who says she had “no idea” what she was doing. This humility hides a sharp business instinct and a deep intuitive sense of community.
From the beginning, she explains, the foundation's North Star was, clear.
“Teachers and students are our North Star,” she acknowledges. As a parent, she could easily get behind that. She'd already seen the difference it made for her own kids, especially in music and the arts, areas the foundation has long supported.
Jennifer is candid about the larger ecosystem. Park City is unusual among ski towns, with strong public schools that are richly resourced in comparison with those in many similar-sized districts or comparable resort economies.
“The number-one thing is the teachers here are amazing,” she says. “If you do not have great teachers, the rest does not matter.”
‘The foundation's role, as Jennifer sees it, is to fund the dreams, ideas, and experiments that aren't covered by tax dollars, allowing educators to try things without risking public funds. Some work beautifully, some don't. But what they all do is move the system forward,
“RUNNING WITH ED” AND A COMMUNITY IN COSTUME
If you've ever seen a group of adults in wigs, tutus, or superhero capes running along Park City’s roadways in May, you probably witnessed Running with Ed, the signature community fundraiser Jennifer helped grow from a quirky idea into a beloved tradition.
Long before her time at the foundation, the annual event had been a midnight advance screening of each Harry Potter movie. When the final film arrived, the board had to rethink everything, Around that same time, Ragnar relay races were exploding in popularity. A board member, Tim Chesley, proposed a local relay that would connect all the schools.
‘The original concept was intense: 10 legs, 40 miles, teams of five, everyone running twice. The course touched every school, climbed up to ski resorts, and looped back through town.
So much of that early effort was powered by volunteers. Tim and his team marked the course days in advance. Volunteers grilled hamburgers through the night before the race. Teachers signed up. Maybe 300 people ran that first year. It snowed, naturally. Costs and revenue nearly washed out. What they created: energy.
By the time I moved to Park City, Running with Ed was already a thing. I remember walking my dogs and suddenly seeing all these people, costumed and laughing, running down the street. I thought, “Whaat is this? Who is Ed, and how do I get involved?”
People still ask Jennifer who Ed is. She smiles every time.
‘There's a beloved high school teacher named Ed Mulick, and former McPolin principal Bob Edmiston, so for years, people assumed the race honored one of them. In reality, of course, “Ed” is short for “Education.”
Under Jennifer's watch, Running with Ed has grown into a town wide reunion: costumes, team names, volunteers at handoff stations, kids cheering on their teachers. It's joyful and a little ridiculous, and that’s exactly the point.
Jennifer shares that at one strategic-planning session, she proposed adding “We bring joy” as a core value. Some colleagues were skeptical—foundations, to them, were supposed to be serious. Jennifer held on to it personally anyway.
“For me, that kind of became a mantra,” she says. Whether it was Running with Ed, Excellent Educator Awards, or Classroom Grants, she wanted their work to bring joy first. Joy invites people in, opens wallets, and builds commitment,
‘That commitment showed up clearly in 2020. When the race had to be canceled, most sponsors still honored their support. ‘Two teachers ran the entire course by themselves, sending photos along the way, and raised roughly $10,000.
Jennifer is stepping toward retirement, and this year marked her official last overseeing Running with Ed. She says it’s bittersweet, acknowledging that the logistics are exhausting. “Events are kind of a young person's game,” she admits. Yet, she'll miss being in the center of that joyful swirl.
A LEGACY OF QUIET LEADERSHIP
My most vivid image of Jennifer came not on race day, but at the PCEF gala. Late that evening, after the stories and the speeches, the auctioneer started the raise-the-paddle portion. One by one, people held up their numbers to pledge support.
‘They were also recognizing her upcoming retirement. In true Jennifer fashion, she'd asked not to be made the focus, wanting the night to be about the students and the teachers. But word had gotten out.
In a packed, buzzing room, her paddle went up for a major personal gift. It was a quiet, decisive moment. The benefaction was in honor of her father, who had passed away the year before, and her grandmother, who modeled a life of community service as the first woman on her local school board.
“This was going to be my parting gift,” she shares. She had begun her career at the foundation with that same gala. Almost a decade-and-a-half later, she chose this stage to impart thanks in the language she'd spent her career helping others speak: generosity.
Jennifer is quick to credit others. She learned from Abby McNulty, her first executive director, then from current director Ingrid Whitley, whom she describes as younger but endlessly wise. She lights up when she talks about volunteers, like the gala chair who once told her, “You are surrounded by people who know what they are doing. It is going to be okay. Let them do their job.” That line stayed with her, and she built a practice of encircling herself with people who are “smarter” and willing to challenge her thinking.
When I reflect on my time with Jennifer, what stands out is her consistency. Whether she's laughing about her early years in Park City, tearing up over the joy of supporting teachers, or talking through the thicket of permits required for a single relay race, the through line is the same: She believes in public schools. In community. And that joy isn't a byproduct of good work. It’s part of the work itself.
In a town where “asks” arrive daily, in inboxes and at front counters, Jennifer has spent 15 years helping the community say yes in a way that matters. Yes to teachers and kids, to programs that might not exist otherwise, and to the slightly wacky idea of running through town in costume for education.
Who is Ed? For a long, important chapter in Park City’s story, Ed looked a lot like Jennifer Billow.
