Leaving the Familiar: When Home Isn’t Where You Are Anymore

Photo by Neal Kharawala on Unsplash

The sound of the "L," the humid press of summer air, the swarm of traffic and footsteps—it all rushed in like muscle memory.

I was back in Chicago for a short work trip. First time in a while. As soon as I stepped out of the taxi near my old office, something stirred in me. Not just nostalgia. Recognition. Like slipping into a version of myself I hadn’t worn in a while.

My "city" self was back.

The sidewalks, the skyway where I used to grab Dunkin' Donuts, the crowd gathering near the Lyric Opera House before the light changed—all of it pulled me in. I remembered the me who moved through these streets with purpose. Chicago remembered me, and for a few days, I remembered it too.

But not everything that came back was welcome.

There was a flip side to the energy. The noise. The logistics. The constant hum of productivity. I felt the edge of it all over again—that familiar tension, the sense of being wired just a little too tight. Back when I lived there, it was normal. Twenty-five years of adapting to the pace. I barely noticed it.

But this time, I noticed.

Even the move to Evanston in my final years there had dialed things down. And now, living in the desert outside Tucson, the contrast is undeniable.

Life here is quieter. But not empty.

There’s more room for stillness. For noticing. Nature isn’t a destination—it’s the backdrop. The wind in the mesquite trees. The way morning light hits the mountains. The way silence isn’t silent at all.

The cliches are true: more mindfulness. More peace. Less pressure to perform. Less pretending I’m not tired.

My nervous system has changed. My tolerance for humidity too!

I didn’t realize how loud everything had been until it got quiet.

That trip reminded me how much I’ve changed. Not just my zip code. My priorities. My pace. And with that comes a swirl of emotion. Old memories feel good. But they also remind you what you left behind—and why.

Revisiting a place that once defined you can stir up more than you expect.

Who was I then? Who am I now? What did I trade, and what did I gain?

Sometimes you can only see the answer in contrast.

Leaving the familiar—whether it’s a city, a career, a role, or a rhythm—can be disorienting. Even when it’s right. Even when you asked for it. Growth usually arrives wrapped in friction.

But that’s where the clarity lives.

Familiarity comforts us. But it doesn’t always nourish us. Sometimes the very things that helped us survive start to blur who we really are.

When I left the city, I wasn’t running. I was listening. I didn’t know exactly what I was moving toward, but I knew I wanted something quieter. Something truer.

And now, after time in the desert, I hear myself more clearly.

If you’re in that space right now—between who you were and what’s next—you’re not alone.

Have you ever returned to a place that once felt like home? What surprised you?

I’d love to hear.