Time passing is inevitable—another high-stake football season and unbearable, icy winter has come and gone again, creating distance between the old days of when there was nothing better to do with my friends than walk to town or find a pickup basketball game to play at the nearest park. There is something special and sincere about growing up in a small town that creates a bond and closeness with the ones you spent chasing around the playground back in elementary school and the ones you avoided eye contact with while learning about sex education in middle school and the ones you went to every overrated dance with in high school. From the time I first learned how to ride a bike without training wheels to learning how to parallel park in between two garbage cans the morning before taking the driver license’s exam, I lived in the same home next door to the same neighbors and I am so grateful I did. When I come home to visit my best friends and family that hasn’t made their way down south by me yet, it feels like I never left. My favorite Mexican restaurant is still my first destination when I get off the plane, we still take little trips to go to the city so we can take an over abundance of photos and my friends still give me a hard time for being the first one to fall asleep at all the sleepovers.

For a short period of time, it feels like time stood still while I ventured off onto my new journey away from where I consider home, when in reality nothing, besides the strength of the friendships and the simplicity of my small town, has stayed the same. We are no longer the little kids with one track minds; we are the adults, trying to start our careers and go to college and find a way to make our lives come together perfectly. I know I wasn’t meant to stay in Indiana forever because the journey I’m taking in Florida has taught me how to be independent, resilient, hard working and optimistic, but living in a small town taught me how to survive living in close quarters with the same people for over 10 years. Every secret was known, every hobby you did or every date you went on was public knowledge. When it came to gossip, I’m not sure which was worse: the immature kids in middle school or the parents who didn’t quite get along. A small town knows all the ins and outs so it had benefits and pitfalls, but for me, it was a little bit to much work to keep up with. Years have passed since I moved so when I come home, I am sort of disassociated with most, which I enjoy a lot—I just get to come and appreciate the peace and quiet while enjoying a day out on the boat with my girlfriends or driving 25 minutes to the nearest shopping mall to eat Portillos and White Castles. Coming home means all the places, mostly restaurants, you’re deprived of where you live now is at the top of your to-do list: must eat Corky’s, Giordano's, Tastee Top, Mi Ranchito, George’s. The list could go on because most of my money for this trip is going towards my poor diet consisting of a lot of tacos and deep dish pizza.

Coming home means staying at your best friend’s house until the very last minute because you don’t want to be separated for months at a time again. Coming home means reminiscing on memories that seem to be stacked away in the back of your mind. I am currently home visiting and I’m learning this place will always be my hometown, but it’s no longer really home for me. It’s the place I’ll take my future husband to visit and show him all the places I once loved and the house that shaped me into who I am, but the older I get, home is wherever I chose it to be and I’m so thankful to have such a loving place with wonderful friends to visit and call my hometown.