You Can’t Go Home Again

How do you break up with a town?

I had ached to return to Gainesville– the swamp– my home for the last 12 years. I had missed my favorite haunts, meals I had dreamt of for months, pub quiz glory I had longed to relive, and yet…

I felt my heart break a little when after a few days, buoyed by the love I felt reconnecting with friends, I realized it wasn’t my home anymore.

I knew that this happens. I knew that traveling could have this effect. But somehow I didn’t expect to be gone for 7 months, and come back to find that everything was the same. I was what had changed.

I could’ve been gone for a weekend rather than half a year. I knew that my little pink apartment would no longer be waiting for me, but I thought that the city I had loved so much would still be a homecoming.

In the back of my mind, if all else failed, I would always just go back there. I thought I could step back into my life like putting on an old pair of jeans. I was wrong. I no longer fit.

I finally unfollowed all the businesses on Instagram like you would your ex’s friends. I don’t need to keep tabs on all the food trucks, weekly specials, and volunteer organizations I won’t be there to see.

Now I know I truly have no home. I’m trying to let that fill me with excitement rather than despair.

I never wanted to live in Florida and I spent 30 years here.

I expect to spend the better part of this year living and working in New Zealand. Will I find a new home there? Or will it just be another stop along the way?

In less than 2 weeks, I’ll leave on yet another airplane, but for the first time with no idea of when I will ever be back. Maybe next time family and friends can come visit me.