There's a kind of belonging that doesn't require performance. But here? Here I'm just another person trying to make something of herself, and nobody knows my story unless I tell them. 🏘️

I have friends here now, good ones. But sometimes I notice we only know each other's current versions. We don't know what I was like at ten years old, or what my mother's laugh sounds like, or how my grandfather built his entire life from nothing. These city friends only see the version of me that exists right now, in this apartment, in this job, in this new life. 💭

There's freedom in that, I guess. Nobody's judging me by my family's reputation or my past mistakes. But there's also this strange loneliness—the feeling that even though I'm surrounded by people, nobody really knows me. Not the whole me. Not the part that belongs to somewhere else. 😔

Sometimes I call home and my mother asks me about my day, and I can hear in her voice that she wishes she could just sit with me and hear it in person, the way she understands things. Because she knows me. She knows when I'm faking it. She knows what I actually need. 🏡

I wonder if this is what everyone feels when they leave home, or if it's just me being sentimental about a life I chose to leave. Is it okay to build a new life but still miss the old people? Can both be true at the same time? 🤔