Homicides. Murders. Robberies. That is what most people mention when they talk about St. Louis. “Isn’t that the most dangerous city in the world?” they ask. They talk about homelessness, the stark divide between rich and poor and the trash that clings to city streets, making itself at home.
But that is not the St. Louis I know.
I did not grow up in the city itself, but in Chesterfield, a quiet suburb tucked into the western side of St. Louis County. My version of St. Louis is not built from headlines or crime statistics. It is built from moments, people and small joys that tie a community together.
When I think of St. Louis, I think of the Gateway Arch, its stainless-steel curve gleaming under sunlight, welcoming all who come near. That arch embraced my parents years ago when they arrived from India with two suitcases, uncertain accents and big dreams. It became a symbol of possibility, of belonging in a place that was never originally ours but somehow became home.
St. Louis is Cardinals games on humid summer evenings, red jerseys blending with the smell of popcorn and peanuts, my friends and I laughing in denim shorts and high spirits. It is “Boo at the Zoo,” collecting candy under glowing lights shaped like giraffes and lions. It is knowing that every conversation with a local somehow includes the question, “So, what high school did you go to?,” a shorthand for understanding someone’s roots before their name even finishes leaving their lips.
Here, trick-or-treating means telling a joke before you get candy. Lemonade stands and bake sales are run by eight-year-olds with more ambition than sleep. Kids soar above roller coasters at Six Flags, their laughter echoing across the park. St. Louis, for all its imperfections, has always been a city with heart, a city that shows up for each other.
For a long time, though, I wanted to leave. I dreamed of California skies and new beginnings, of being somewhere so far away that I could forget the familiar. UC Davis seemed like the perfect escape, an opportunity to start fresh. But life, in its own quiet wisdom, steered me back home. I chose Saint Louis University. The decision was partly practical: tuition, family and convenience, but also deeply personal. SLU’s Jesuit mission, its commitment to serving others, and the kindness of its professors made me feel seen and supported. It was not the grand adventure I had once imagined, but it became something better: a homecoming.
At SLU, I learned that community does not end when you grow up: it evolves. I saw my city differently: the patients at local clinics, the families struggling quietly in neighborhoods I used to drive past without noticing, the deep inequities that often hide beneath the surface. St. Louis was not just where I lived; it was where I could make a difference.
Now, as I prepare to apply to medical school, I think less about escaping and more about serving. Maybe I do not need to chase the allure of a big coastal city or a shiny new skyline. Maybe what I need is right here, in the city that raised me, shaped me and still teaches me what community truly means.
I want to treat cancer patients in the same hospitals where my parents once waited nervously for checkups. I want to give back to the city that gave my family a start, to heal where my roots run deepest.
Because home is not just where you are from, it is where you decide to stay, to care, to build something lasting.
And for me, that place will always be St. Louis.
It is easy to believe we fully know a place just because it is familiar, but home has layers, stories, struggles and strengths that reveal themselves only when we are willing to look deeper. What I once saw as ordinary became meaningful, and what I once dismissed became a reminder that understanding is not about knowing, it is about continuing to learn, even about the places we think we already know.
So I would like to say:
Dear St. Louis, Thank you for giving me the opportunity to get to know you better and for providing me with a lasting sense of home.