Going Back Isn’t Going Home
When I turned 44, a lot began to change for me. I started noticing the signs of aging — and feeling them too. But along with that came something unexpected: care. I began taking better care of myself. I started going to the gym, eating healthier, quit smoking, and now I rarely drink. That shift wasn’t just physical. It opened the door to deeper reflection.
I’ve always been sensitive and introspective — very much an empath. I also grew up in a deeply abusive home. My mother was only 18 when she had me, and my father left town before I was even born. She was a narcissist. Not long after, she married a man who was abusive as well. I can’t say for certain if he was a narcissist, but the signs were certainly there.
My grandfather was different. He was the sheriff of my hometown — my own Andy Griffith figure. Calm, steady, protective. I don’t think I ever told him how cruel my mother or stepfather could be. Maybe I didn’t have to. When I was with him — and that was often — I forgot about my home life entirely. That was the kind of love he gave me. It wrapped around you. It shielded you. It was a refuge.
In the early ’90s, my grandfather passed away. With him went that protection — the genuine, sustaining love that had quietly carried me through some very hard years. Around that same time, my stepfather died by suicide. He took his life while my mother, my sister, and I were away at my grandmother’s house. It happened after I finally told my school counselor about the bruises he had left on my back. Speaking the truth changed everything — but no one ever helped me understand what any of it meant.
After that, my mother gave me up for adoption, and my sister became the golden child. I was never given closure, empathy, or understanding. I was sent to a boys’ home — a ranch in the middle of nowhere, several counties away. I saw my mother and sister maybe once a month, but it never felt real. It felt distant. Artificial. Like I was visiting a version of a family that no longer truly existed for me.
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As an adult, I eventually had to walk away from both my mother and my sister entirely. The narcissistic pathology between them is deeply enmeshed and entrenched. There was no room for truth, healing, or peace. Walking away wasn’t done in anger. It was an act of survival, of self-respect, of self-preservation. It was the only way I could protect my happiness and my peace.
I don’t really have anyone else as far as family goes — and I’ve made peace with that. I have God. And I’ve learned that His presence has been enough to carry me forward.
When I look back, I think often about nature. My hometown is beautiful. I think about the joy I felt with my grandparents, the simplicity of those days, the safety I felt then. Those days are gone now, but they shaped me. They live in me.
Today, I understand so much more than I ever did back then. That understanding has brought me peace. I could go back — maybe even live there — but I’m not sure. While that place is where I began, it isn’t who I am now. I’ve changed. The world has changed. Even that small, quiet town has changed.
If I ever return, it would be to visit my grandfather’s grave. To sit by the lake and watch the sunsets again. To swim, boat, hike, camp — to reconnect with the things I once loved. Walking down memory lane would be healing. Meaningful. But home, to me, isn’t a place anymore.
Home is the love and memories I carry in my heart and soul. It isn’t geographical. Love has no address. It’s inherited, remembered, and carried forward.
And wherever I go next, that’s what I’ll be bringing with me.
