I Moved Back to My Hometown After Running From It; Surprisingly Happy

When I left my small Maine hometown for college at 17, I felt ecstatic.

It was a good place to grow up, but I was ready to meet people who hadn’t known me since I was in diapers, see new things, and move far away … permanently.

So, when I decided to move back home a few months before my 33rd birthday, no one was more shocked than I was.

I figured this would be a temporary phase — something I’d endure, a layover on my way to somewhere better. I certainly didn’t expect to bloom in a place I’d once been so eager to leave.

For most of my teens and 20s, I defined my success by how far I moved from home

I went to college in Massachusetts and then spent my 20s moving around. I lived in Providence, Boston, Philadelphia, and then Boston again.

Through it all, my Maine hometown was a place to visit for the holidays or crash between leases, but it was never home.

When my second stint in Boston came to a natural end in my early 30s, I had the idea of moving back in with my parents and saving some money while I worked my corporate job remotely and figured out where I wanted to live next.

Before I knew it, I was loading my stuff into storage and moving back to my childhood home.

Growing up, the idea of moving back home and in with my parents felt like my personal nightmare and definition of failure. So, I was surprised when the shame and embarrassment I expected to feel never came.

Instead, I loved spending quality time with my parents, now as adults on equal footing. After years of city life, I appreciated having a backyard and easy access to the ocean just a few miles away. I loved chatting with neighbors and seeing my childhood best friend more regularly.

What I loved the most, though, was how it felt to hit successful milestones in the same place I swore I could never grow.

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I paid off my student loans in my living room and saw the northern lights from my backyard. I continued working remotely from the dining room table and traveled a ton.

In spite of everything I had once believed, I wasn’t just living — I was thriving.

Returning to the place I grew up has brought up old memories and helped me appreciate the life I’ve lived

When I come inside from clearing off cars and shoveling snow, I’m flooded with memories of kicking off my boots and racing upstairs for hot cocoa as a kid, cheeks flushed from hours spent playing in the snow.

I go to the grocery store with my mom, following her around and chatting about everything and nothing, and have flashbacks to being 10 years old and doing the same.

Relaxing on the deck, sun-drunk and hungry after a day of swimming, makes me feel 12 again. Pulling into the driveway after running an errand takes me back to being 16 and giddy that I could drive myself anywhere I wanted.

I walk my dog past the mailbox that once delivered my college acceptance letters. Every version of me is here, and after years of running away from that, I’ve finally learned how beautiful it is.

Returning to where I grew up has made me grateful that I spent nearly 18 years building my foundation here.

I’ve been back home for a little over a year now, and I’m not sure if I’ll stay here forever. I don’t know that I’ll ever get tired of exploring new places and trying out new homes.

I do know one thing, though: The roots I once tried to dig up have stuck, and I’m grateful for where they are.