Introduction
Returning to my hometown always stirs something deep—a mixture of connection and disconnection that’s hard to untangle. The streets, familiar in outline, seem to shift each time, their details blurred by time and distance.
I’ve visited often over the years, but my last few trips have felt different. The pull has been stronger, harder to ignore, as though the place itself has been asking me to take notice. I’ve lived in the US for almost 30 years. I stayed after my first marriage ended, even as my family returned to the UK, later remarrying and building a new chapter of my life here. But even with roots firmly planted, each return sharpens the question: What does it mean to belong when the places and relationships that once defined home have shifted beneath your feet?
It’s a strange thing, existing between two worlds. Each feels like part of me, yet neither fully claims me.
A Nation of Choices
When I became a US citizen in 2010, it felt like a defining moment. I stood with my certificate in hand, reflecting on the choices that had brought me here. It wasn’t just a legal step—it was a declaration of belonging. I believed I was firmly tied to the life I’d built, to the values I thought defined my new home.
For years, that belief felt unshakable. But over time, the certainty began to falter. Political events like Trump’s elections were a stark reminder of how quickly the ground beneath you can shift. It wasn’t just about politics; it was the realization that the life I’d built and the place I’d chosen didn’t fit as neatly as I’d imagined.
Each trip back sharpens the questions. It isn’t nostalgia pulling me toward the past. It’s something deeper—a quiet insistence that there are still pieces of me scattered in the place I left, waiting to be reclaimed.
But returning isn’t as simple as finding those pieces. The town itself has changed, its familiar outlines softened, its vibrancy fading in ways that feel both inevitable and startling.
The Echoes of Change
As I walked the streets of my hometown, I felt the weight of change everywhere. The vibrant market square of my childhood—once alive with the buzz of traders, shoppers, and chatter—feels diminished now, its energy drained over time. The stalls that once brimmed with fresh produce are now fewer, corralled into a corner. Where there was a steady hum of voices, there’s now the occasional sound of footsteps on damp pavement.
I could still see flashes of what once was, but they were overlaid with empty shops and fading signs. The place I remember feels smaller now, as if time has worn its edges down.
And yet, some things endure. The Crooked Spire still rises above it all, leaning impossibly toward the sky. Its steadfastness feels like a quiet reassurance, a reminder that not everything changes. But even the Spire casts a bittersweet shadow, its constancy highlighting how much else has shifted.
Rooted and Restless
The weight of what’s been lost isn’t just a feeling—it’s in the quiet streets, the hollowed-out market, the long-gone book stores and record shops that were almost second homes to me. Some people have moved on, their lives stretching in directions I’ll never fully know. Others are gone entirely, their absence felt in the silence that fills familiar spaces.
Those who remain seem deeply rooted, their lives tied to the rhythms of this place in ways I can only observe. I watch them with a mix of admiration and unease. Part of me envies their connection—the ease with which they seem to inhabit a world that feels so altered to me.
“Living between two worlds has taught me that resilience isn’t about holding steady—it’s about adapting.”
But their permanence also affirms the choices I’ve made. Living between two worlds has taught me that resilience isn’t about holding steady—it’s about adapting. Each place I call home has reshaped me, adding new layers to who I am. That fluidity, while sometimes unsettling, has given me strength: the ability to find my footing in unfamiliar places and build a life wherever I land. The Crooked Spire reminds me of this adaptability—its ability to lean without falling, to endure the passage of time while holding its shape.
The Meaning of Home
Now that I’m back, I’m left asking the same question I always do: What is home? It isn’t the same place I left, but that doesn’t mean it’s gone. The streets, even in their quiet and change, still hold traces of where I began.
And yet, home is also the life I’ve built here. Staying in the US after my first marriage ended wasn’t just a matter of circumstance; it was a choice that reshaped my sense of self. I remarried, settled into a new chapter, and for a time, built a life that felt rooted. When that chapter ended, I stayed—not because it was easy, but because it felt like the right thing to do. Staying taught me that home isn’t just about geography. It’s about commitment: to a place, to an idea, to yourself.
“The Crooked Spire reminds me of what it means to navigate change… its endurance doesn’t come from perfection—it comes from balance, from the ability to bend without breaking.”
The Crooked Spire reminds me of what it means to navigate change. It has stood for centuries, leaning impossibly against the sky, adapting to the elements while holding its shape. Its endurance doesn’t come from perfection—it comes from balance, from the ability to bend without breaking.
Perhaps that’s what home truly is: not a fixed place, but the resilience to carry it with you, letting it stretch across distances and shape wherever you stand.