It wasn’t part of the original plan. You envisioned graduating from college and leaving this place behind for good. That was always the goal.
Now, thirteen years and two major relocations later, you find yourself in your bright kitchen in the Bay Area when your spouse mentions a job opportunity that would take you both back to the city where you grew up. You’ve joked about this scenario before, often ending the conversation with a dismissive laugh and “No, can you actually picture that?” It felt impossible until, suddenly, it became your reality.
Within just 12 hours of your arrival, you bump into an old college acquaintance at a local store. It’s both unexpected and strangely familiar. In a city this size, you’d think anonymity would be easier to maintain, but that’s not how it works here. You remember the comfort of being unknown in Chicago and the Bay Area, where you could avoid those awkward encounters in grocery store aisles. Here, though, it’s common to run into old friends and acquaintances at places like Costco, the swim club, or Starbucks. Some people assume you’re just visiting, while others didn’t even know you’d left town. You receive Facebook messages from old connections, and while you’re curious about their lives, it feels like they only want updates to satisfy their own curiosity.
You’ve moved into a house that’s nearly three miles from your childhood home, right before your kids’ school year starts. You receive their class lists filled with names that mean nothing to you. However, you send them off to school, counting it as a win when they return home with new friends and extracurricular activities they want to join. You even find yourself volunteering to coach robotics—not out of passion, but because they need more coaches to include everyone.
Living in the same city as your parents and sister again has its challenges. You quickly establish some boundaries: no surprise visits without a heads-up.
With no job and a lack of familiar faces, you find ample time on your hands while the kids are at school. You spend hours at Starbucks, trying to write and read, even when inspiration feels elusive. You miss the baristas at your old café who knew your order by heart and had your iced coffee ready as soon as you walked in.
As you drive past your best friend’s old house, now adorned with a rainbow mailbox and an insipid quote, it hits you—she moved away years ago, and her parents have since relocated. You feel a wave of loss thinking about how different everything is now. The memories linger, especially when you pass your grandfather’s old home, a reminder of what’s missing.
Your remaining friends from high school and college have their own lives to navigate. Some are still single, while others are busy with young children or single parenting. Everyone seems occupied, and you realize that the gatherings you once thought were frequent were mostly due to your efforts in organizing them during visits back home.
After about six months of adjusting, you come to a tough realization: you’re depressed. The busy-ness of life has distracted you, but now the weight of your unhappiness is undeniable. It’s not merely a phase—this is a profound loss for the life you left behind. When asked if you’re happy to be home, how do you respond? “No, I’m struggling and longing for the Bay Area” feels too raw. But faking happiness is equally difficult. Instead, you mention how nice it is for your kids to spend time with their cousins and engage in school activities.
One day, you drive by your old high school while an R.E.M. song plays on the radio. It’s surreal; you feel both 16 and 35, driving familiar streets in a practical SUV instead of the little gold coupe you used to have. Despite the vehicle upgrade, it feels like not much has changed. R.E.M.’s lyrics echo your feelings perfectly: “Everybody hurts.”
You’re still in between jobs, and you find yourself relating a bit too much to Hannah from Girls. You worry about the future.
The most painful moment comes when your son’s childhood friends graduate from fifth grade and move to middle school. Scrolling through Facebook, you see their graduation photos, and your heart aches in a way you never anticipated.
After more than a year, things start to shift. An old friend invites you to join her running club, leading to reconnections and new friendships with those who share your interests. Your mom’s best friend starts a book club and includes you. Both of your kids get accepted into reputable magnet schools, and you begin to get freelance work, mostly local. This sparks discussions with your husband about potentially staying longer, especially with the added benefit of free babysitting from family.
One day, the baristas at the Starbucks near your new house finally recognize you and ask about your kids. It doesn’t feel like home yet—not in the way it did when you left at 21 or any of the other places you’ve lived—but it’s a step toward feeling settled. Each day brings you closer to making this place yours.
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In summary, moving back to your hometown in your 30s can be a bittersweet experience filled with nostalgia and challenges. While it may take time to adjust and find your place again, connections with old friends and new opportunities can gradually help you feel at home.