Essay: Woman in her hometown

On the places that haunt us

Nothing hurts like a hometown, especially Dayton, Ohio. Cornfield after cornfield. The notorious HELL IS REAL sign off of Highway 35 that, after all this time, still makes me sweat. I contain multitudes and apparently all of them are anxious. 

After nearly three years away, my hometown now feels like a sweater left too long in the dryer. Familiar but unwearable, itchy at the edges.  

On my drive in, things start to feel surreal. The neighborhood grocery store has gone under and been replaced by the Midwest Shooting Center. Nearby, the trendy church recently accused of being a cult has been rebranded to the innocuous-sounding Dwell. I turn into the suburb where my parents live—the house where I spent my high school years. It’s covered in twinkly lights and my mother has made 8 different kinds of Christmas cookies. When I arrive, she pulls out the biscotti, hands me tea with cream and sugar, then sits and watches me eat in that urgent way mothers often do. 

I haven’t lived in Ohio for nearly three years—not since I loaded up my Subaru, two cats, and 14 plants, then drove west. In the decade before I finally left, I used to wake every morning from the same nightmare: I was trapped in a barrel of water decomposing. The morning I left for Oregon, the  nightmare disappeared, as if it drained right out of me.

All that to say, visiting Ohio now is hard. It’s strange how you can build another life—one where you travel thousands of miles away, make new friends, shred religion, change careers, fall in love, fuck up, and even write a book. But then you come home and, there, in your teenage room with the sad yellow wallpaper, you find your sixteen-year-old self again, right where you left her, chewing on her nails.

I once had a professional development coach tell me that it takes approximately 9 months of altered behavior for colleagues to see you differently in the workplace. This means you have to repeatedly remind peers that you’re trying to change before the narrative around you can also shift. The problem with reshaping family dynamics (among many)  is that we don’t see family all that often, so our past selves become crystallized in time, like summer bees suspended in resin. 

My family and I are close, but we disagree on things like politics and religion. My parents were Baptist missionaries and I spent much of my childhood overseas. I was raised to believe in the inerrancy of scripture, that there was a literal Heaven and a Hell (a terror later reinforced by Ohio’s billboard signs), and that the worst sin a woman could commit was having sex outside of marriage. 

For years, my mother used to separate me and any boyfriend I brought home into different bedrooms, even if we were already cohabitating. The strategy backfired. As an adult, nothing made me hornier than sneaking out of bed to go fuck my tattoo-covered boyfriend imprisoned in my parent’s guest-room. 

Things have softened over time. My parents no longer separate me from a partner during Christmas and they don’t flinch when I swear. They’re pretty cool with the fact that I live in Portland, don’t go to church, and the only time I talk to God is when I trip on psychedelics. 

As for me, I love my parents, and I’ve stopped wanting to change their mind about most things. Especially a faith that brings them deep comfort as they get older. We’ve fallen into a gentle understanding, but I think we still wish the other saw the world a little more like we do. 

Downtown Dayton, I spot the ghost of my 16-year-old self leaning against the skating ramp of my old school. It’s the place where I’d hide and smoke vanilla Djarums—not because I particularly liked to smoke but because I liked the thrill of sinning but not getting struck dead. 

I can’t help but feel grateful to that girl with her unquenchable angst, bad eyeliner, and migratory instinct to leave. I owe a lot to her. She’s the reason I went west.

After my visit, I return to Portland and immediately take a long hike through the mountains. It’s rainy, but I can still see the curve of the coast. In the distance, pines upon pines. I get that sensation again—the one I felt when smoking or making forbidden love or wildling along a secluded beach, salt in my throat. It feels a little like being born again—not the evangelical kind, but the rebirth you usher forth yourself. The second life you choose after the life you’re given first. The one where you chase whatever calls you west until you find a tiny square of earth to plant your feet on. A home that can hold all of you. A place you get to call heaven.

What’s the hardest/best part of going home for you? I’d love to know in the comments.

---

Write with me: 

Creative conversation: Overcoming creative resistance

Join me for a live conversation with psychotherapist, author, and creativity coach, Dr. Maisel, as we talk about the biggest obstacles to our writing and creativity. Learn how to overcome writer’s block, establish a consistent writing routine, and silence your own inner critic. Tickets and event description here. 

Workshop: Beginnings and Endings with

Kelly Grace Thomas

Learn to make an unforgettable entrance (and exit). In this generative workshop taught by award-winning poet

Kelly Grace Thomas

, you will learn how to open poems in a way that keeps readers reading, and close in a way that makes them want to read again. Using a number of simple and replicable strategies, you will learn how to use conflict, conceits, and characterization to craft poems that leave lasting impressions. Tickets and event description here. 

Poetry Masterclasses

My digital shop, the Poetry Market, is now live. You can catch replays of workshops and find other resources here.  

Sustenance Waitlist

My writing community, Sustenance, is full, but you can add your name to the waitlist to join when spots open. Join the waitlist here.

Book launch 

Right now, I’m gearing up for a book launch and tour for my new collection Instructions for Traveling West (out April 9th)! If you haven’t already ordered the book, snag a copy here. Preorders are immensely helpful in dictating what kind of life the book will have. Also, if you’d like me to join you on a podcast, feel free to shoot me a dm. ❤️