It wasn’t part of the plan. You envisioned graduating from college and bidding farewell to your hometown for good. Fast forward thirteen years and two major relocations later, and here you are in your sunny kitchen in the Bay Area, when your husband drops the bombshell: his job wants him to move back to the city where you both grew up. You’ve joked about what it would be like to return home, each of you rolling your eyes and saying, “No way, right?” But suddenly, that joke becomes your reality.
Just twelve hours after arriving, you bump into an old college acquaintance at the Apple Store. A surprise that’s somehow expected. In a city this size, you thought you could blend in, but that’s not the case here. When you lived in Chicago and the Bay Area, anonymity was your friend. But now, it seems inevitable that you’ll run into familiar faces at Costco, the swim club, or Starbucks. Some are shocked you’re not just visiting, while others didn’t even realize you’d been gone. And then there are the old friends who reach out on Facebook, clearly just curious about your life—once they’ve satisfied that curiosity, they seem to vanish again.
You settle into a new house—just three miles from your childhood home—exactly one week before your kids start school. You get their class assignments, but it’s like reading a foreign language. The names mean nothing to you. Still, you send them off, relieved when they come back with new friends and lists of activities they want to try. You find yourself volunteering to coach the robotics team, not out of passion, but because they need more coaches to ensure every child can participate.
Adjusting to living near your parents and sister again takes some effort, especially with all your husband’s grandparents and extended family also nearby. Boundaries are a must: no surprise visits allowed!
With no job and a blank slate of time while the kids are at school, you find yourself spending countless hours at Starbucks, trying to write, even when the words seem stubbornly absent. You miss the personal touch from the baristas at your old spot, who would have your iced coffee ready the moment you walked in.
You drive past your best friend’s old house, now owned by strangers who’ve painted the mailbox in a garish rainbow with an inspirational quote—something you know she would have hated. You also pass by your grandfather’s home and feel a wave of grief wash over you. It’s been years since your best friend moved away and your grandfather passed, and it just feels wrong to be in this city without them.
Your other friends from high school and college—those still around—seem to have their own busy lives. Some are single, others are busy with young children or working hard as single parents. The reality hits hard: no one is calling or making plans with you. From afar, you once thought they were all having a blast, but now you see they rarely connect, and you realize you were the one orchestrating those occasional reunions when you visited.
It takes about six months, after all the unpacking and settling in, that you confront the truth: you’re feeling depressed. It’s been a struggle to admit, but now, with the holidays over and routine set, the weight of it all feels crushing. When people ask if you’re happy to be home, you can’t bring yourself to say, “No, I miss everything about the Bay Area!” Instead, you dodge the question, mentioning how nice it is for your kids to be closer to cousins and involved in school activities.
Driving by your old high school while an R.E.M. song plays on the radio is a strange experience. You feel both 16 and 35, navigating familiar streets in a sensible SUV instead of that gold Saturn coupe from your teenage years. It’s almost comical that R.E.M. provides the soundtrack to your middle-aged existential crisis. Everybody hurts, indeed.
Unemployment gnaws at you, and you start to feel an uncanny connection to Hannah from Girls. Things seem dire, and it’s a tough year. The hardest moment comes when your son’s classmates, those he’s been with since kindergarten, graduate to middle school. Seeing their proud faces on Facebook stings more than you could’ve imagined.
But slowly, after more than a year, things start to shift. An old friend invites you to join a running club, where you reconnect with more familiar faces and forge new friendships. Your mom’s best friend starts a book club and invites you along. Plus, your kids get accepted into well-regarded magnet schools after two years in a traditional public school. You even land some freelance work that’s local enough to keep you engaged. It’s enough to make you and your husband reconsider staying here a bit longer, especially with the bonus of free babysitting from the family.
The baristas at the Starbucks near your house still don’t know your name—until one day, one of them actually calls you by name and asks how your kids are doing. It still doesn’t feel like home—not like it did when you left at 21 or any of the other places you’ve lived—but it’s solid. Each day brings you closer to making it yours, one step at a time.
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Summary:
Moving back to your hometown in your 30s can be a jarring experience filled with unexpected encounters, nostalgia, and the challenge of reconnecting with old friends. As you adjust to a new routine, it’s common to feel a mix of emotions, especially when familiar places and faces remind you of what you’ve left behind. However, with time, connection, and new opportunities, it’s possible to build a sense of belonging once again.