Since I was in high school, I had this obsession with moving away from home. Maybe it was the youngest daughter in me that needed to run away in search of something I could call my own. Not a worn and deteriorating hand-me-down my sisters shoved into a trash bag for me to look through.
I’ve always wanted my life to be my own.
At first, I dreamed of living in New York City. It reminded me of Chicago in a way that meant I would still be surrounded by a bustling city that resembled home. Over time, NYC changed to Boston. I saw pictures of New England homes on Pinterest and fell in love with Beacon Hill Brownstones. The visions of a happy and carefree life flooded my mind the longer I stared at the homes. It’s hilarious to me that a brick building was what first introduced me to the possibility of life in Boston.
The dream sat in the back of my brain for years after I graduated from high school. It served as my, “this is what is in the future, you can struggle a little right now if it means getting this later on.” Every single time I felt myself slipping into a deep hole, Boston was the light from above telling me everything would be alright. After deciding I wanted to go to graduate school for a master’s in fine arts in creative writing, I immediately began looking at programs in Boston.
Over this past spring break, I finally visited Boston. Aside from the world’s worst airport experiences at O’Hare and then at JFK, walking the streets of Boston felt like I had finally accomplished a part of that dream that’s been plaguing me since I was a teenager.
The feeling I got on the very first full day in Beacon Hill was inexplicable. I was finally home. I had finally achieved the first step in a larger plan, and if therapy has taught me anything, it’s that you must celebrate the little wins. Suddenly, at night when I slept, I was struck by a strong sense of guilt. I was grappling with the guilt of wanting to get away from my family and everything I had known my entire life. I want a new life, or at least a new chapter.
For so long I’ve let things pass me by, only taking chances I think are attainable and show little to no risk. Boston will be a risk, but I’m at the point in my life where that risk doesn’t seem so scary anymore. Boston feels as though it is a peaceful risk, one that will come with reward. I still feel guilty about being so excited to get away from Illinois and my family. I asked my mom a few months ago how she would feel if I moved away for some time. I was expecting her to say she didn’t agree or wasn’t sure I could succeed, but instead, she told me that if it’s something I really wanted, that she would be supportive.
I remembered her voice while I walked on the uneven brick and pavement sidewalks. Part of me needs to get there. I need to prove to myself that everything I’ve endured was worth it because it meant I was finally in the city that had burrowed its way into my soul. I have plans for myself once I move. One of the first things I’ll do is look at that tattoo on the back of my arm that I got when I turned eighteen.
It says, “We’ll be alright.”
It’s a lyric from my favorite song, “Fine Line” by Harry Styles. I got it as something to look forward to. The words that were etched into my skin would be something I could look at someday in the future and say, “She was right, I am alright after all.” I’d finally let out that breath I had been holding for so long. There’s a reason why I’ve always wanted to go to this city, and it’s my goal to figure out what that reason is.
If a place calls your name, I hope you follow that voice like I will.
I urge you to trust that there’s a reason why it feels like home.