I have spent the better part of my life longing to leave Arizona, the sole place I've spent my 20 years. I dream of big cities with whirring taxis and kaleidoscopic lights. I dream of places dotted with pillowy trees that blush red in the fall, snow powdered mountains and shimmering ocean expanses.

Sometimes I feel as rooted to the ground as the old Mesquite tree in my grandparents' yard. It must grow so tired watching the world move and change, while it's fated to remain utterly still for the 100 years it's alive. This is how I often feel as I look out the window of my apartment, my roots so deep in this state that I don't know how I'll ever leave, even if given the chance.

But I've made up my mind. Somehow I will dig myself out after college. Somehow. I will watch the Saguaros shrink to little toys from the window of some dinky plane. I will fill my heart with the treacherous mingling of fear and wonder that only a new experience can bring.

But I know I will come back. Because as tired as we may grow of our hometowns, that place is still home. And that is something we can never change.

For me, Arizona is home. It's so crazy that I can take a short drive and end up in the midst of my past. Thirty minutes away I can visit the Circle K where my friends and I would load up on sticky soda in styrofoam cups and spill them while dancing in the parking lot. Or the yogurt shop we would frequent in high school, where we would laugh so hard that sprinkles were practically coming out of our noses.

I can still point out the tree I carved my boyfriend's name into. He's long gone, but the memory remains, the poor creature forced to bear the scars of a lost romance. His house isn't far from mine either. Sometimes I think about driving by it, just to see if it looks the same, but I never do.

My elementary school is an even shorter drive from my apartment. When I pass by it, as I often do, I see my younger self knee-deep in a sand pit, mining for some treasure she will never find. I've been to the Wildflower Bread Co. my dad would take me every morning before school, and it still holds the same magic that it did for me as a child. The smell of rising bread and sugary icing; the warmth of the air, and the pleasant hum of conversation. These elements are warm arms that cradle me as I step inside. But I don't go often, for fear it will lose its nostalgic glow.

Why would I ever want to leave a place where fires rip across the sky and mountains graze the clouds? Where I have friends and family on every corner? You've probably asked yourself similar questions about your own hometown. Many of you have already made the leap, traveling miles and miles to a different state, where you've started from scratch. And many, like me, haven't.

Some people don't feel a calling to leave the place they know and love, and that's OK. It's incredibly hard to let go of a place you completely adore, but for me, it's even harder to hold on. I think we all need to fly, to experience something new at some point in our lives. We grow and learn so much from immersing ourselves in a completely different environment.

But if we do jet off to some other place to make our home, we must never forget the places that shaped us into who we are. And remember, your hometown is always there waiting for you when you want to return, preserving the fragments of you that you left behind.