Three steps out of my front door with bare feet and a backpack, I found a whole lot of home. There was the oak tree that I thought I grew from an acorn, but really my parents had been lying about all along. There were the trashcans, contorted beyond belief by two new drivers and one old car. Over there were the neighbors that loved me, and over here were the neighbors that hated me. It was five o’clock in the morning, and a big van that didn’t belong to me was filled to the brink with everything that did belong to me.

Five steps out of my front door with scrapes on my knees and braids on my head, I found a whole lot of reason to stay. There was my brother sleeping upstairs, somehow growing taller by the minute. There was the lavender I’d dried. There was the painting I’d tried. There was the backyard, and the willow tree, and the tiles in the kitchen. There was everyone I had ever known. There was every heartbreak and baby bird I’d ever nursed, every apology I gave and was given, every two o’clock in the morning, every hand hold, every mistake, every reason to stay.

And I left.

Leaving home has been both my biggest regret and the best thing for me. In some ways it feels so easy to leave everything you know behind-- cowardly even. I was abandoning ten tons of trouble; I was sneaking out and not leaving a note. When people told me that I was so brave to go, I’d make sure they knew just how brave they were to stay. Living eighteen years in one place gives you just enough time to cause just enough trouble that you’d be okay leaving it all behind. Maybe it wasn’t going away that was so hard, but instead it was staying somewhere new. Somewhere tired, somewhere faster, somewhere angrier and colder-- somewhere without you.

I drove 17 hours on a highway to get away. The other day I couldn’t remember the name of it. I-70 sounds a lot like I-90, which both sound a lot like nonsense if you say them too many times. I saw enough of the Midwest to make me never want to return—enough to know that maybe even if I tried, I wouldn’t be invited. I was leaving the poetry of the plains, the people of my place, the flyover states—there are secrets here. My hometown has been burned down before, but it shook off its ashes and it silently drew its swords. We fell together, held onto each other so tightly, whispered, “you’re welcome here, you’re wanted here, you’re free here.” You can’t walk down a street in Lawrence, Kansas without hearing our hellos—your reminder that you’re welcome here, you’re wanted here, you’re free here.

The Midwest, my home of so many years, became the childhood friend I lost touch with. I had so many pictures of you. When people would ask about you, I’d say something small—something about the flat roads or the corn or the cows. I felt a lot of guilt and regret about moving to the North East. It was the Great Unknown for so many of us. It was a sign of Making It, of Getting Out, of Forgetting. But I Had To Do It.

So I left.

After so many weeks spent worrying about not being invited back, Kansas waved goodbye. Kansas said, “You’re welcome here, you’re wanted here, you’re free here.”

Leaving wasn’t an “and there I was” moment. Instead, it was a lot of “I’m getting there” moments. I was driving there, and then I was there, but in a lot of ways I still wasn’t steadied on my feet. There were a lot of things that made me uncertain. Why were the hotdog buns cut that way? Why did people walk so fast? Where were they going? Why weren’t they saying “hello?” Was I welcome here? Was I wanted here? I knew for sure that nothing was free. My cost of living skyrocketed. Why was water so expensive? I wasn’t even in a big city, but the culture shock was all too much. I felt very much like I was shrinking, becoming less important, less needed, and less smart by the minute.

So I grew.

I started talking louder, walking faster, getting to the library before the sun was all the way up, going running before it was even really showing. I wasn’t becoming a different person, per-say, but I was changing. I was a louder version of myself. I wasn’t at all sure that I was important anymore, so I had to work double-triple-ten-times-over to convince myself that I was. I wrote more. I wrote home. I stopped saying so many sorry’s. It didn’t feel like anyone was watching, so I felt free to do so much more. To everyone who I saw every day, I was a person without a name. I was whoever I wanted to be. I did so much laundry. Some days I didn’t do anything. I don’t stutter when I introduce myself anymore. After saying my name over and over and over again, I finally learned what it meant.

“Hi,

I’m here.”