Coming Home to My Childhood Self: What Leaving and Returning Taught Me

I can measure my childhood in the intense summers,
The gentle ding-dang of my mother's windchime,
The thick molasses humidity that almost chokes you.

These sounds and sensations live in my body like muscle memory, yet for all these familiar markers, I can't always find my way back to the girl who first knew them.

The suffix of my address changed from avenue to street. I’ve watched the same tree turn bright golden every fall until it cracked from a storm and old age. I waved as my childhood best friend left her home, and some stranger moved in. And then another. And then one more.

I envy those who pass their childhood elementary school and watch memories return like a flipbook. For me, it sits near a roundabout I turn by when heading to my neighborhood after grabbing groceries. I don't look fondly at the stop sign on my corner. Once my bus stop, now just where I turn for my early morning walk to avoid the molasses heat.

Every trigger for a memory surrounds me, and yet each has been muddled by something new. New carpet. Paint. Furniture. Milestones.

Maybe that's why my childhood feels like sand slipping through my fingers.

Where She Still Lives Beside Me

I was brainstorming at my desk when I looked down at the carpet, and it hit me like a crashing wave—my childhood bedroom is now my office.

Gone is the yellow sunflower wallpaper, replaced by calming green paint.
A large wooden desk sits where my twin bed once was.
Cameras and computers claim the space where Barbie dolls once lived.

If I think too hard, I can see the imprint of where I played Barbies as a child.
The memory feels dusty, like those dolls now stored in the attic's small crevices, destined to stay there until my parents pass or we sell the house.

As my child self plays, I tap on a computer.
She giggles, I explain ROI on a Zoom call.
She plays make-believe. I do too.
Same spot. Different game.

She is so close yet so far away—a portal I can’t reach.

Maybe I’d been treating my past self like those dusty Barbies, boxed up instead of invited in. What if proximity didn’t erase her? What if it let me speak with her?

The Places I Went Looking

From Preston to Glasgow to Boston, I used to think that if I went far enough, lived in enough cities, I'd feel complete—like I'd step into the version of me who had finally "made it."

But there is a pull to come back here, to sit right beside her.
Maybe it is my child's self. Maybe she just wants to play Barbies with me.

Preston was a whirlwind, a quick spring shower. I knew it was coming, and before I blinked, it was over. But that shower left a lasting impact, helping grow roots of friendship and a deeper love for travel. When I returned home to windchimes and molasses, the summer rain felt familiar, but now I had a new perspective.

Glasgow felt like a brand new sweater that needed washing a couple of times to get the softness just right. Stiff at first. Unforgiving. Then comfortable and cozy, holding me just so. Until immigration requirements put it in the dryer—suddenly tight, stiff, no longer fitting. Like my childhood blanket, it could be pulled out from time to time, but it never felt right again.

Boston should have been a fling. I dragged it out, trying to make it work, trying to shape and contort myself to fit. It felt like middle school. An "almost" friend for an "almost" city — a relationship based on proximity, like sitting next to each other in class and trying to force friendship.

Each city felt like a new round of make-believe, but none could erase the original game on this carpet.

The farther I went, the more I realized what I was chasing wasn't out there. I needed what my child self had all along—presence, play, and deep curiosity about life. Coming home was a chance to meet her again, to see what she could teach me about living now.

We're told the best advice is to leave your hometown. Meet new people and ideas. Escape your comfort zone and expand it. Leaving is important, but so is returning.

My leaving was for growing; coming home was for understanding.

The Joy She Knew First

We’re bombarded with the idea that your thirties are about reclaiming the joy you had as a child. But what happens when proximity to your past blurs it instead of preserving it?

I look at pictures of my younger self and barely recognize her. Maybe it’s because my hair is no longer that shade of blonde that my face has aged with time and weight. Maybe it’s because I know now what lies ahead for her, and I see her not just as the girl who got me here, but as someone untouched by what was coming, yet already holding the first glimmers of knowing.

Maybe recognition was never the point at all—maybe the point was integration.

As I spend this time rerooting, I am learning the “dream life” isn’t elsewhere, waiting for me after I’ve done enough or gone far enough. It’s right here, in the room that’s been mine all along. It’s writing again. It’s making videos. It’s watercoloring and reading. It’s making cinnamon rolls every Sunday. It’s all these small moments that make up my everyday.

Maybe the point isn’t to return to the carpet where she played Barbies, but to keep playing beside her, here and now.

So each morning, I start with a question: “What would make child-me excited about today?”

Sometimes it’s eating breakfast outside, watching Ratatouille, trying a new recipe, or jumping in puddles when it rains—small acts of presence she’d recognize, bridges between who I was and who I’m becoming.