It's the most-asked question I get on my first Sunday back at the church I grew up in. I don't know how to answer.
How do I tell them that this is not my home? How do I tell them that my heart is out west and it aches to be back?
"What are you doing after you graduate? Are you moving back here?"
"It's going to be so good having you back here in May!"
How do I tell them that my sweet friend who dropped me off at the airport had to force me to get onto that plane? How do I tell them that I was filled with hesitancy when my plane finally landed? How do I tell them that moving back to Florida is nowhere on my radar?
How do I tell them that I feel like a foreigner in the town I lived in for fifteen years?
"Welcome home! Well, I guess it's not really home anymore, is it?
"There's not really anything here for you anymore."
At first, I was taken back by the last comment.
There's not really anything here for you anymore.
Does that mean I am not welcome? Does that mean I can't return? Does that mean I've locked and sealed a door behind me?
No. Not even a little bit. Unless that's what I want it to mean.
Finally, somebody got it.
I no longer long for the afternoon thunderstorms of Florida, the damp morning dew, or the familiar crashing of ocean waves. I no longer have to do the grocery store shuffle, shifting down other aisles to avoid awkward small talk with people I recognize. I no longer have to carefully schedule in coffee dates with old friends.
My life, my joys, my passions, my job and apartment and friends and sunrises and mountains and valleys are out west. I know the curves of the hills, the ebb and flow of the traffic, the rhythm of an urban life that was once foreign, strange, and frightening.
Some days it's hard.
When babies are born or babies grow up, sunrises on the beach show up on my newsfeed, and old friends have gathered together. When I want nothing more than to drink wine and watch Dance Moms with my aunt. When the traffic is piled up and I just want to get out of the car. When the desert hasn't seen a drop of rain in ages and there's no such thing as "weather."
Most days it's easy. It's gotten easier every day.
When the mountains get the first snow of the year, the foxes trot along beside me on my morning run, and the temperature is a steady 75 degrees for the week. When new friends pile up on the living room floor because we don't have a dining room or a big enough kitchen table. When babies are born here and babies grow up here. When the sun sets over the water, or the rivers flow along the street. When the canyons wind and a road trip is planned through the painted deserts.
Florida is no longer my home, no longer the place of familiarity.
And that's okay.
