You can’t go home again—nor should you try

If you’re like me—like most people, I imagine—you occasionally return to places that hold special meaning. A former workplace. A school. If possible, you might drive by your childhood home. Whether you sit in the driveway or knock on the door, you’re probably searching for something.

Why do we do that?

It can be fun to reconnect with our younger, smarter selves. And it’s human nature to glorify the past. We’re nostalgic for the times we got promoted. Or were called to the stage to receive an award. But we’re also drawn to the flame of unresolved trauma.

Recently I returned to Surfside, Florida. Sitting in front of our old stucco cottage, memories came flooding back.

The only backyard party I ever had ended abruptly when my mother sent the boys home for cursing.

The smooching session that ended in humiliation when she banged on the steamed-up windows of a boyfriend’s car and dragged me up the driveway by the arm.

The dog walk that ended in death. Poor Cocoa broke free of her leash and was hit by a car.

I could go on but I won’t. Because you have stories of your own. It’s a wonder any of us escape childhood with even a shred of our selves in tact. And yet, we do. We have other parties. Kiss other people. Get other dogs. We even have kids of our own.

Surfside has changed, and so have I. Bungalos are being replaced by million-dollar monstrosities. A building boasting “37 mansions in the sky” is being erected on the very rubble where, in 2021, a condo crumbled and 90 people died. Harding Avenue shops that once carried beachwear and strappy sandals now cater to Hasidic Jewish families in need of kosher foods and modest clothing. If it weren’t for the ocean and a very few friends, I would never go back.

I suppose it’s okay to outgrow a place, and to not even like it anymore. If we’re lucky, new places emerge and bring us joy.

As I prepare to move yet again, packing and purging is harder than I remember—though it’s surprisingly easy to leave Colorado. And I think I know why.

If we never leave the places we know—as tragic and complicated and amazing as they are—we can’t experience the crazy twists and turns that come next.

In Denver I was fired for the first time in my life. I started a business and this blog. I crashed on a scooter and bought a camper. I struggled through eye surgeries, Covid, and the death of another dog. My Boych flew the coop and I learned to live alone. I turned sporty dating into an art form, and made a little art.

And then—surprise of all surprises!—I met my Mountain Mensch. Three years later, he’s ready to leave the Shangri-La where he spent the last 40 years. And I’ve got the 10-year itch again. Mountains and beaches both are calling.

California, here we come!