When a House doesn’t equal Home

Two  years ago, I wanted to go to New York.

My grandmother feared that if I left, I wouldn’t want to come back.

So- I didn’t go to New York. I went to Los Angeles instead. And it’s not that I’ve never wanted to come back- it’s that it is different now.

Before, I bleeeeeed Texas pride, from every fibre of my being. And I couldn’t imagine growing up without my friends who I had spent so much time and so many years with.

But now, it’s different. Because when you leave, when you don’t spend so much time in one place, the idea of what was home gets a little fuzzy. It’s not the same.

This place. It is the same. It’s still my hometown. But- I’m not the same. I feel like I’ve changed, and now it is a different thing to navigate it. Do I still spend time with all the people that I used to? And if I don’t, what exactly am I supposed to do for three months? Do we still have things to talk about or are we going to reminiscence? So far, we’ve had things to talk about. But- it still doesn’t feel right.

It feels like coming back to a stagnant pond, and I’ve been in a river.

How do you go about moving on when you don’t want to leave things that mattered behind?

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