A year and a half ago, my wife and I decided it was time to leave Savannah, Georgia, after living there for two years, and return to the Midwest. While the decision initially felt right, I entered months of self-doubt and indecisiveness.
In retrospect, it’s obvious to me that my lack of clarity was social media-fueled — after all, it can make life feel like a competition over who can look the coolest and most successful. My own desires felt clouded by what I saw through small, digital windows.
We’d wanted to go back to the Midwest largely because we both had family there, including my young nephews. It’d been hard to miss so much of their lives. My father, sister, and my wife’s parents were there, too — all people who made up our support system. The Midwest also felt like home, and in the end, we chose to relocate to Chicago.
But I questioned whether this decision was somehow an “uncool” one. I wondered if I’d be happier or more successful elsewhere.
I compared myself to other people
As a writer, I compared myself to other creative people. Writers, musicians, photographers, and dancers I knew who lived in LA or New York City. Was I selling myself short by not trying to “make it” in those places? Was I going to fall behind? Would I be happier or more successful there?
I spiraled. LA and New York are expensive and far from our families, whom we wanted to see more often. If we couldn’t move there, should we move somewhere more beautiful — that is, somewhere that looks enviable on Instagram? Somewhere with mountains or lush forests. Despite seeing beauty in the Midwest and a deep affinity for Lake Michigan, I questioned whether it compared to other beautiful places.
I also wondered if my desire to be closer to home said something unfavorable about me, if it meant I was moving backward, somehow. Would I miss out on anything by making this choice?
I tried to imagine my life in another place outside the Midwest
My wife and I made a list of all the places we could see ourselves living. We wrote down Asheville, North Carolina, as well as Burlington, Vermont, and various other midsize cities with naturally beautiful landscapes that are within a 10-hour drive of our families in Michigan.
We made some pros and cons lists and tried to imagine what life would really be like in those places. But I kept coming back to the same thing: I wanted to go somewhere that felt like home, closer to people who felt like home.
Finally, I started listening to myself over my perception of other people’s lives
I thought about the first place I lived outside Michigan — Denver. While I liked living in a city and enjoyed the mountains in the distance, it never felt like home. Sometimes, being in a landlocked state made me feel claustrophobic. I missed the big bodies of water of my home state.
Savannah hadn’t felt right, either. It was beautiful there, too, but it was unfamiliar in so many ways. I missed familiarity. I wanted to see my family more than once or twice a year.
I realized that in all my indecisiveness, what I was really after was a better version of myself. It wasn’t the geographic place I was concerned with, but who I could be while living there. The successful writers I compared myself to who lived in L.A. or New York weren’t successful because of where they lived, or at least not that alone — they were successful because of their talent.
People who live among “Instagram-worthy” landscapes might be happier in part because of their surroundings, but they also may not be. I understood the true meaning of that cliché: wherever you go, there you are. I could be who I wanted to be anywhere, and who I wanted to be included someone with strong relationships to people that matter.
I understood, too, that I’d been treating this decision as if I were making it for the rest of my life. If I ever decide I do want to give another city a go, I can change my mind. Life is long. In Chicago, at least for now, I feel like I have the best of both worlds. A major city, “cool” things to do, no shortage of artists and beauty — and my family is a few hours away.
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