Where I Grew Up vs Where I Grew Strong

Living alone for quite some time now—well, not entirely alone, but away from the warmth, familiarity, and comfort of my near and dear ones—has been one of the most transformative experiences of my life.

Moving to a city that once felt foreign and intimidating wasn’t easy. Every face was unfamiliar, every street unmarked in my memory. But somehow, through quiet mornings, unexpected breakdowns, late-night dinners alone, and the steady rhythm of routine, this city started to feel like a part of me. Not because it welcomed me with open arms, but because I carved my place into it.

Growing up, I was cocooned in comfort. I didn’t lift a finger. My parents did everything—from making my bed to bringing me water when I didn’t even ask. I was so dependent, so sure that comfort was the default state of life. But life had other plans. And this move—this leap into the unknown—was the beginning of my becoming.

Living away from home has taught me things no classroom or job ever could. I learned how to budget—because running out of money mid-month is very real. I learned how to cook—not the fancy stuff, but enough to survive and sometimes even enjoy the process. I’ve learned to live with silence, to embrace solitude, and to find comfort in my own company. These aren’t just life skills. They’re small triumphs, each one a step toward a stronger, more self-reliant version of me.

But I won’t sugarcoat it—there are days I miss home so badly, it hurts.

There are mornings I wake up and wish I could hear my mom calling me for breakfast, or my dad walking around the house humming to himself. There are evenings when the loneliness gets so loud, I wish I could teleport for just one hug, one familiar face, one shared laugh around the dinner table.

Some days, I don't feel like showing up. Not for work, not for friends, not even for myself. I skip the makeup, ignore the pile of dishes, put off laundry, and crawl back under the blanket, hoping sleep will make the heaviness go away. And that's okay.

We don’t talk enough about the weight of growing up. About how hard it is to carry ourselves through life when we no longer have the scaffolding of childhood holding us up. This is adulthood: uncertain, messy, exhausting—but also beautiful in ways we never expected.

There was a time I couldn't even toast a slice of bread without burning it, and now I find myself planning grocery lists, managing bills, fixing things I once called my dad for. I’ve become my own hero in small, silent ways—and I’m proud of that.

This new city—the one I once feared—has become a mosaic of memories. I’ve gotten lost in its streets and found pieces of myself I didn’t know existed. I’ve had conversations with strangers that felt more healing than any therapy session. I’ve laughed in cafés alone and cried on park benches. And through all of this, I’ve realized: maybe I’m not just living in this city. Maybe I’m growing with it.

Every time I go back to my hometown, it feels a little different—warmer, but more distant. Like I’m visiting someone I used to know, someone who loved me deeply, but no longer fits my new story. And yet, that town holds my roots. The people I love most still live there. And that will always be sacred.

But this new city? It holds my growth. My mistakes. My loneliness. My becoming.

To anyone reading this who’s moved out, away from the comfort of home, and into the chaos of carving a life on your own—I see you. I feel you. And I promise, it gets better. You’ll cry, sure. You’ll break down in grocery store aisles or while folding laundry at midnight. But you’ll also rise. You’ll figure things out, build a new kind of family, and slowly, this place you once feared will become home.

And when you visit your parents next time, and your mom asks if you want a glass of water, you’ll smile and say, “No, I got it.” That’s when you’ll know—you’ve changed. And you’re still changing.

So if you’re feeling overwhelmed, like you’re not doing enough or being enough, pause. Breathe. Look around. You’re doing the best you can with what you’ve got—and that’s more than enough.

You're not alone in this. And most importantly, you’ll always find your way back home—maybe not the physical place, but the feeling. And that’s what matters.

Because no matter how far we go, the people who love us are always with us—in memory, in prayer, in every quiet cheer from a distance.

And one day, you'll look back at this chapter and realize: this was the season you bloomed.