Writing My Way Home
When I was 18 and insufferably over this whole “small-town suburban Midwestern thing,” I said goodbye to the only home I’d ever known—Kansas City—for what I figured would be the rest of my life. To anyone who would listen, I’d made it exceedingly clear that I’d never, ever, live here again, what with its awful friendly people and oppressively low population density; not this (not-quite-yet) big-city kid! It didn’t matter where I went, as long as it wasn’t freakishly equidistant from the coasts, and it didn’t figure in any way into The Wizard of Oz. So long, see you later, goodbye KC!
Twelve years later, I deplaned at Kansas City International following a very long, and frankly terrifying, transatlantic flight. I dragged my 30-year-old self up the jetway and into the waiting arms of my (smugly?) triumphant family. It did not escape my notice, nor theirs, that for the first time in my life, I was in my hometown with no exit strategy to speak of—no return ticket (since I didn’t have anywhere to return to), no secret plot to move to a new continent (tried that once already), no backup plan.
But instead of feeling like a complete failure, which is how I had always imagined moving back would feel, and
