Coming back home after living somewhat independently in our college-town bubble has always been an interesting, if not perplexing, experience for me.
The months leading up to my departure for my freshman year at UF were defined by my mother’s constant agonizing that once I finally drove to Gainesville I was never coming back. This was a fair assumption, considering I had spent the majority of my childhood trying to prove I was capable of doing everything on my own (a belief that has undeniably been proven false). Honestly, I think a small part of me thought the same thing as my mom: I would be absorbed by some sort of collegiate black hole, never to return home again.
Of course, we were both wrong. I’ve come back home, albeit maybe not as often as I really should. Sometimes it requires a full-on guilt trip from my parents to make me drive those four hours, but usually an overwhelming week will be enough to send me southbound on I-75. I’ve come to expect a few things whenever I make this journey, including my mom asking me if I’m eating enough in Gainesville, having to tell an uncomfortable amount of adults my post-graduation plans and spending the majority of the weekend talking to my dog. But, most of all, I’m constantly struck by how my hometown seems to change and stay the same simultaneously.
There are some things that will never change. My mom, dad and dog still have their designated spots on the couch. I’ll get yelled at for slouching and leaving my shoes scattered around the house. Dinner conversation will quickly turn into a heated football discussion. All these little details, which seemed so insignificant while I lived there, have become comforting, reminding me while my life in Gainesville constantly changes, there will always be one place that remains the same…at least to some extent.
The changes that happen while you’re gone can creep up on you as well and remind you nothing can escape the effects of time. Each time I come home, I can’t help but notice my siblings are a little bit taller, some new furniture has appeared and my old bedroom has been commandeered by my brother. This can easily send you into a downward spiral of nostalgia and fear if you allow it to because let’s be honest: Change is scary.
The summer after my freshman year, I visited my old high school to pay a visit to some old teachers and potentially embarrass my little brother. As I walked through those familiar halls and peeked through the doors, I could no longer recognize any of the faces within and felt a profound disconnect from a school that had played such a huge role in my life. It was sad, sure, but it also proved encouraging in that it signaled the end of an era: It was time to move on.
Above all, going home forces you to realize how much you’ve changed. Even though I joke about being a clueless English major with a persistent fear of being a real adult, coming home forces me to realize I’m at least slightly less clueless than I was three years ago. In Gainesville, it’s easy to compare ourselves to those who seemingly have their lives together, when in reality we’re all on our own personal journeys. It can be simultaneously exciting and terrifying to see yourself from this different perspective, and sometimes making the trip home is all it takes.
Marisa Papenfuss is a UF English junior. Her column appears on Tuesdays.
