I have never felt like I fit into my hometown. My parents moved my sister and I to a smaller inland town from the countryside, away from the foggy beach weather of Santa Cruz. I felt out of place there, like everyone had already established their cliques, and I could only watch from the sidelines as all my classmates interacted.
We moved further into the country, out of the suburbs, and I felt a sort of peace flow over me in this new home, but I still never felt welcome at school. This small town continued to remind me that I would always be the outsider, despite having lived there for a good half of my life. Needless to say, I was really excited to leave Hollister for college, and while I am now having the best time in Isla Vista, I can’t say it feels like “home” here either.
It’s a privilege for me to go to college and further my education, and it’s one I don’t take lightly after learning how my parents’ education literally changed the trajectory of my family’s life. I am so, so, happy to be following my passion, and hanging out with friends that became family, but that doesn’t take away from this inner anxiety in my chest that Isla Vista isn’t quite home either.
The waves on these beaches are different from the Northern California ones I grew up dancing in, this humidity is different than the dry, almost-desert heat of the mountains of San Benito County, and my apartment shower is much different than the well water that pours out of my tap at home. But once you leave your hometown, what is even considered “home”?
Last year, I was incredibly lucky to have been one of the few first years to bring their car on campus, and I took that advantage and tried to go home at least once a month. My little sister is my best friend, so being able to visit to see her as much as possible was — and still is —a top priority. However, when I drove up the steep driveway of our hill, passing my neighbor’s horse pastures, I couldn’t escape the inexplicable anxiety that entered my stomach. Like yay, I’m home and I get to see my family and my millions of dogs and cats, but also this isn’t right either.
My little farm house on top of the hill, which had been an escape in a toxic relationship and tumultuous friend group dynamic in high school, suddenly felt like it didn’t fit me anymore. It hadn’t changed, and yet something inside of me had. I felt restless on my weekends and breaks spent at home, like I had to rush back to Isla Vista, only to get to I.V. and miss my family and house. Why did I feel this dichotomy?
One weekend, I spoke to my parents about this, whose lives had taken them to places around the world. As we sat around the fire in our backyard, overlooking the mountain ridges, my dad said it’s not a lack of a “home” I have, but one too many. The more places I go, the more people I love, my number of homes I have will grow. He said it’s something I’ll have to grapple with, probably until, and after, I am his age. Is this what growing up is? A constant restlessness, a tug-of-war between different lives and places?
I don’t have the answer for myself, or for you. I’ll probably wrestle with this same feeling again when I graduate UCSB, and (hopefully) move to New York City for a job in publishing. While that’s almost as scary as what I’m going through right now, I’m taking comfort in the fact that so many college students go through this same thing. Maybe if I flip the narrative, like my parents did, and turn this into a story of the ability to live many lives in different places, the physical pressure I feel in my chest about not belonging anywhere will ease.