Getting stuck in traffic on Santiago’s perpetually clogged Avenida Vespucio is a metaphor for my feelings about where I grew up: equal parts frustrating and comforting, with just a sprinkle of existential dread. There’s the honking chaos, the graffiti shouting political slogans, the street vendors hustling everything from churros to cellphone chargers—and yet, when you pull over and look past the mess of it all, the Andes loom in the distance, stoic and majestic, reminding you why you endure it. Santiago, for better or worse, is home. And like an old lover you can’t quite stay mad at, it holds pieces of me I’ll never fully leave behind.

Growing up in the bustling heart of Chile meant I was always surrounded by contradictions. Santiago is a place where tradition dances with modernity, sometimes beautifully and sometimes like a drunk couple at a wedding. My childhood was filled with empanadas that burned the roof of my mouth (always worth it) and family singalongs of Violeta Parra songs that made me believe, for a while, that the world could be held together with music and shared nostalgia. But it was also filled with moments of longing—for something bigger, brighter, and less confined by the city’s perpetual smog.

Home Is Where Your Trauma Is (and Your Favorite Bakery)

Let’s be real: for many of us, the place we grew up is more than just a backdrop—it’s the co-star of our early traumas and triumphs. It’s the ex who still sends you cryptic Instagram DMs after two glasses of wine (metaphorically speaking, of course). You may not want to revisit it, but it pops up anyway, forcing you to confront who you were and how you’ve changed.

For me, Santiago has always felt like a telenovela—equal parts drama and tenderness. It’s the city where I had my first kiss (awkward and sweaty, under a graffiti-riddled bridge) and my first real heartbreak (he moved to Berlin, “to find himself,” whatever that means). It’s also where every street corner feels like a time capsule, whispering memories back to you: the bakery with the flakiest pastelitos where my dad used to bribe me into reading harder books, the plaza where I accidentally got locked out of the house until my mom came home with the spare key, laughing at my misfortune.

These places hold such an intense intimacy that I find myself both protective of them and irritated by them. Kind of like the way you feel about a sibling who's always tagging you in embarrassing childhood photos on Facebook.

The Push and Pull of Leaving

Leaving your hometown can feel like a breakup—messy, cathartic, but also terrifying. When I moved to Madrid in my twenties for grad school, I was euphoric. I told myself Santiago was small potatoes now. I was off to embrace late-night tapas and flamenco bars! But, if we’re sticking to the breakup metaphor, Santiago clung to me like an ex who knows too many of your secrets to ever really let go.

Madrid was enchanting, but it wasn’t home; it didn’t know the particular shade of green the hills outside Santiago turn after a rare rainstorm or the specific scent of roasted corn that drifts down the streets in summer. It didn’t understand the unspoken rule of eating marraqueta fresh from the bakery because anything older than a few hours is a personal betrayal. There’s a difference between “fitting in” and truly belonging, and while Madrid welcomed me with open arms, my heart kept reaching back for the imperfect charm of Santiago.

Learning to Make Peace with Home

If you’ve ever tried to explain to someone what makes your hometown both wonderful and infuriating, you’ll know it’s not an easy task. Hometowns are complicated because we are complicated, and our feelings about them are as layered as a well-made tres leches cake. But making peace with where we come from is a form of self-love, and if we’re going to spend the rest of our lives navigating relationships—with partners, friends, ourselves—we owe it to ourselves to start with the one we have with home.

Here’s how I’ve learned to navigate my love/hate relationship with Santiago (and maybe it’ll help you with your own version of home):

  1. Celebrate the Good Stuff
    Santiago has its quirks and faults, but it also has the Mercado Central—a labyrinth of seafood stalls so fresh that you half expect a fish to start talking. It has cozy weekend ferias where I’ve bartered for secondhand books and churros while chatting with strangers like we’d been lifelong friends. Finding those small joys—like the way the city practically vibrates during a fútbol match—helps me refocus on what I love, even when the negatives creep in.

  2. Forgive the Not-So-Great Stuff
    Every place has its faults, and Santiago is no different. The public transit can be a nightmare, the smog sometimes feels sentient, and don’t get me started on the stray dogs blocking crosswalks like they own the town. But these flaws don’t negate the beauty—it’s all part of the messy, vibrant portrait of the city. Forgiving home for its shortcomings feels a bit like forgiving yourself for cringey mistakes you’ve made in the past. It’s necessary and incredibly liberating.

  3. Set Boundaries
    Just like with that overly clingy friend, you need boundaries with your hometown. Visiting too often might make you question why you ever left, but staying away too long can spark an identity crisis. I’ve found that popping back in for key family events—or, let’s be honest, for my mom’s pastel de choclo—keeps me balanced. I get a dose of home, without slipping back into the all-consuming whirlpool of nostalgia.

  4. Reframe the Narrative
    Instead of seeing your hometown as something you’ve “outgrown,” try thinking of it as the foundation for everything you’ve built since. Santiago taught me resilience, gave me countless embarrassing stories to share at dinner parties, and instilled in me an unshakable belief in the healing powers of a good sopaipilla on a rainy day. That’s not small stuff.

The Takeaway: Love It, Hate It, but Always Learn from It

In my complicated relationship with Santiago, I’ve learned that home isn’t just a physical place. It’s a feeling, a rhythm you carry whether you’re stuck in its traffic or thousands of miles away. It’s the imprint of childhood afternoons playing soccer in the park, nights spent crying to a Mercedes Sosa track because love felt impossible, and mornings that smell like fresh-baked marraqueta.

Do I still complain about Santiago’s smog and noise? Oh, absolutely. But I also wouldn’t trade its messy, imperfect charm for anything. Our hometowns might frustrate us, but they also keep us grounded. They’re the compass that reminds us where we started, even when we’ve wandered far, far off the map.

So whether you love your hometown or love to hate it, consider this: it made you who you are. And that’s worth celebrating.