Grew up in a small town…

“Grew up in a small town, and when the rain would fall down, I’d just stare out my window” - Breakaway by Kelly Clarkson

There’s a quiet kind of reckoning in coming home after years away. Leaving behind the high-rise hum of the city for the sprawling flatlands and familiarity of my hometown, I’m suddenly part of the place I thought I’d outgrown. In the city, I became a person who saw her life as a series of endless, branching paths; now, I find myself circling back to the start, relearning the roots that once anchored me, or at times held me down.

The transition has felt like stepping from full color into sepia, a world softer, quieter, but also sharper in unexpected places. Life here unravels slowly, yet I feel the undercurrent of memories rushing all around me, carrying pieces of my past self along the winding roads. Here, every corner holds a memory, every quiet moment a reminder of my Father’s presence that once filled the house. Being back, I see the spaces he left behind in sharper relief—empty chairs, familiar routines that now feel incomplete. It’s a different kind of grief, a constant echo in a place that should feel whole but doesn’t, as if the home itself is quietly grieving too.

Being back under my family’s roof feels both like a homecoming and an invasion—of space, privacy, freedom. Here, love fills the walls, thick and tangible, wrapping around me with every familiar voice and every footstep down the hall. There’s a kind of peace in knowing that someone cares if I don’t come home by midnight, someone cooks a meal not just to feed me but to welcome me home every evening.

But this love comes with its own edges. Gone are the silent nights of my solitary city life; now, every moment is intertwined with my family’s rhythm, my life woven back into theirs. The independence I cherished, that precious solitude, sometimes slips through my fingers. And yet, I know that this closeness, this feeling of family, is a treasure that’s fleeting, one I’ll wish I held tighter when it’s gone.

The city taught me movement, the art of always pushing forward. But here, there’s an invitation to stand still, to breathe, to feel the wide-open sky expand around me. There’s beauty in the familiar scent of mesquite and dust, in the comfort of roads I could drive with my eyes closed.

And then, there’s the warmth of community, the soft magic of familiarity. In this small town, faces greet me with recognition, and even a trip to the grocery store becomes a reminder that I once belonged here. Strangers aren’t truly strangers here, and the collective history binds us in subtle, enduring ways.

But small towns hold their own traps. Privacy, so easily claimed in the anonymity of city life, becomes a fragile thing here. Life happens on display, each personal event a ripple that touches the community. Sometimes it feels as though I’m standing on the same stage I left years ago, but now, I’m older and slightly out of place, still playing a part I thought I’d left behind.

The city was a feast of diversity, an endless exploration of ideas, cultures, and ways of life. Here, everything is known, and change trickles in slowly, if at all. After the intensity of urban life, there are days when the quiet here can feel like confinement, like a door softly closing on my ambitions.

In this return, I am both the person I was and the one I’ve become. I see myself in the unchanging sky over my hometown, but I also feel the pull of the city’s siren song in the back of my mind. I wonder if perhaps we’re meant to feel this duality—to be grounded and to yearn, to embrace home while reaching for more.

As I walk through familiar streets with new eyes, I attempt to find appreciation for what I once took for granted. I feel the gift of slowing down, of reconnecting with family and land, of seeing my past and present intertwine. Perhaps, in time, I’ll discover that coming home isn’t a step backward. Maybe it’s a quiet, powerful way of moving forward with more purpose and more heart.

And for now, that’s enough. I’ll let myself breathe in this slower rhythm, to accept both the beauty and the ache of home, and to carry the lessons of this return with me, wherever I go next.