It had been just over 15 months since we last stepped foot on those (sacred to us) city streets. The afternoon sun reflected off the river’s rippling surface, making this particular November afternoon in Chicago an exceptionally pretty one. It was our first time back in The Windy City since our big move to Columbus, and with less than 24 hours to explore this former home of ours, we were bound and determined not to waste a minute of it.
Making this already memorable visit even more special was the fact that we had our son with us: our newly turned one-year-old who was almost a Chicago-born baby. We moved to Ohio when I was 30 weeks pregnant, so the majority of my pregnancy had been spent in living in Illinois. We were all sorts of excited to give our baby boy the grand tour of the place that was home during the six years that preceded him.
I was curious what it would be like, returning for the first time since moving away. Although our move to Ohio was both extremely intentional and desirable, it had been hard to leave Chicago. The majority of my and Tyler’s story had been written there, and we have the memories to prove it.
If I’m being honest, I expected to feel the heart pangs—the same ones I felt when we left her. I questioned whether I would return to Ohio wishing Chicago was still my residence, longing to go back to a life lived among the urban hustle and bustle I did sometimes miss.
The magic was certainly still there, but the city is always a magical place for me. I definitely felt the electricity—the shock of energy that never fails to surge through my body when my feet hit those streets. But it just wasn’t the same. I didn’t feel the longing I once had. I wasn’t swooning over the Gold Coast brownstones or even pining for our old exposed-brick loft in the South Loop. I definitely felt the nostalgia, but not the desire for this past experience to be our present reality.
In the same way that we have memories sprinkled throughout Chicago and her surrounding suburbs, we’re starting to populate the city of Columbus with the same. Like pins dropped on a map, little marks of this life we’re living are starting to stick, and it feels good. We have new anchor points; experiences and memories that tether us to this place we’ve now called home for nearly 16 months.
* * *
It was a rainy Sunday evening when we arrived back in Columbus. I had fallen asleep in the passenger seat, but I awoke just as we were passing through the heart of the city. Looking out through the rain-splattered windshield, I caught a glimpse of the skyline. As if they had been trained to do so, my eyes immediately found the red brick building with the white block lettering—the hospital where our son was born. Talk about an anchor point. I couldn’t help but smile.
There’s no Willis Tower, and it certainly doesn’t overlook a Great Lake, but what Columbus has come to mean in the short time we’ve been here more than makes up for what it may lack in geography and grandeur.
For all her pomp and circumstance, Chicago no longer feels like home. And what I’m finding is that, for the very first time, I’m perfectly okay with that.
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