Homeboldt

Returning home is like stepping into a time capsule, one that holds every version of me at once. I drive past places where I lived entire lives in fragments: the trails where I ran until my lungs stung, neighborhoods where we rode our bikes in loose packs until the sky dimmed, corners of earth where we built fairy houses as if magic could be constructed from twigs and belief. I miss the excitement of attending Crabs games and the bonfires that stretched long into the night. There are parking lots that still carry a charge, where I drank for the first time and kissed boys I wasn’t sure about, their significance inflated by my friend’s insistence that it meant something. This is where I first loved, in that earnest, uneven way that feels like it might ruin you or save you. It’s also where I had my first job, tucked inside a small kitchen that felt bigger than it was, where I learned how to move quickly, how to listen without being told twice, how to trust my hands. This is where I started to understand that belonging isn’t rooted in geography, but in people, and that you can find it again and again if you’re willing to leave. Still, this small town held me in a kind of quiet protection while I figured out how to do that. The redwoods feel like family - tall, patient, unimpressed by my comings and goings. The restaurants feel like old apartments, places I occupied briefly but fully, leaving pieces of myself behind without noticing. I spent so much of my life going back to the ocean when my feelings got too large, letting it swallow the excess, standing there until I felt proportion again. The rivers, too, are where time slips a little, where the water moves around you like it knows something you don’t, like it’s been waiting for you to catch up. For a while, coming home felt unbearable. Like being asked to sit across from every version of myself I had outgrown but never properly said goodbye to. The awkwardness, the wanting, the unreturned love that lingered longer than it should have. But it’s also where I learned how to leave, how to walk away from friendships and relationships that didn’t fit anymore, that asked too much or gave too little, that felt heavier to carry than to set down. Now, I’m learning how to hold it all without trying to rewrite it. To look at every version of myself and not wince. To let her be exactly who she was, without apology or revision. Maybe growing up isn’t becoming someone new, but learning how to live with all the people you’ve already been, and not turn away

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