The Ethics of Leaving Places That Shaped You

Growing up, I used to say that there was a curse on the place I'm from—that no one, absolutely no one, could leave.

Most people here, if you asked them, would tell you they stayed because of family. It's always the excuse. You grow up here, go to college here, marry someone from here. You buy a house, have a kid or two—or four—and then those kids grow up and do the same.

Like Kasey Musgraves said, it's quite literally a Merry Go 'Round.

For a long time, I thought I wanted those things too. Maybe not in the exact same town, but somewhere nearby. Somewhere familiar.

But when I turned eighteen, I moved to Boulder for a bit. I met new people there—people who opened my eyes to different ways of living, thinking, existing. When I eventually moved back home, I found others who quietly felt the same way I did.

Stuck.

The longer I stay here, the more I realize this place was never really meant for me. And lately it feels like I'm reaching the moment where it might finally be time to go.

I have a few different blueprints for what life could look like next. But I still feel that old "curse" hovering over me.

Is leaving a betrayal?

My great grandparents bought a house in the city where they raised my grandma. She then raised her four children there before my family eventually sold it. My mom and my aunts would tell stories about the town—stories about who they became there, about the lives they built with what they had.

Then I had my own stories.

I grew up further out in the suburbs, in the sticks. Later, I ended up living in the same city my mom grew up in. I made my own memories there too.

Each place holds a version of me—both the person I am now and the person I was years ago.

But when I go back home now, it feels different. Like an obligation. Even though it's only a 45 minute drive. I can't count how many times I've packed my things into boxes and moved somewhere new, only to find myself still...here. Still close enough that it feels like an extension of what I already know.

I think that's the problem.

When I moved to Boulder, I discovered an entirely different side of myself. My personality shifted. My understanding of the world expanded.

It's where I named myself Olive.

It's where I found Olive.

Sometimes I say I left her back in Boulder—even though I never stopped calling myself that.

Places have a strange way of holding versions of us that existed there. The weird little country store we grabbed dinner late in the evenings in the sticks. The park parking lot where we kissed the first person we ever truly loved at nineteen. The first home you had with your mother after your parents divorced. The diner where you and your friends ordered a side of extra fried French fries with ranch and chocolate chip pancakes at two in the morning—completely sober, mind you.

Places collect these little pieces of us. And nostalgia holds this tone of homesickness I wish I could rid myself of.

This place shaped me into who I am today. It held me through some of the worst moments of my life. It helped me heal. It built parts of me I'll carry forever.

But does there come a point when a place has taught you everything it can?

A friend of mine a year or so ago asked me about my plans after I completed my Master's degree. Smiling, she said something quietly that stuck with me.

"I mean...this place was never really for you anyway, right? You don't belong here."

Strangely enough, it felt good to hear someone else say it out loud. To know that someone else could see that maybe I was meant for something bigger than the world we were introduced to.

Still, I think about the guilt.

About leaving the family members who are still here—living and breathing.

And even the ones who aren't anymore.

How do you explain to both groups that the place they raised you, the place they loved, just isn't cutting it?

That you need something more?

I'm beginning to realize that sometimes your hometown is meant to be your starting line—not your final destination.

And sometimes staying can actually be less ethical than leaving. Who am I to suppress my own opportunities and growth just to avoid and prolong the feelings of guilt, loss, or change?

At some point, it has to come down to self respect.

Because the truth is, you never really leave the places that shaped you. Not for a million years. Whether you live an hour away, twenty three hours away, or an ocean away—they stay with you.

You don't lose them.

You just stop living there.

Knowing a new chapter—no, a new season—is just around the corner that involves not only an entire new cast, but an entirely different setting is terrifying.

But also a little exhilarating.

For the first time in a long time, I feel completely free. No one holding me back. No one dictating where I'm going next.

This part is all me.

And it makes me wonder...if home is where we were made, what does it mean when we feel called to remake ourselves somewhere else?