“What do you mean you’ve never been to Beaumont?”

That’s the kind of question I’ve heard countless times—half incredulous, half sympathetic—over the years whenever I mention my hometown to someone new. For the unfamiliar, Beaumont is a mid-sized city in Texas often overlooked in the shadow of Houston, its glossier, flashier neighbor to the west.

Beaumont isn’t exactly the place people daydream about visiting. I mean, I love her, but let’s just say she’s more “stretch marks and sensible shoes” than “yoga pants and latte art.” Growing up there felt like dating someone you absolutely know is bad for you but who, deep down, you can’t seem to quit. My love/hate relationship with home has shaped me in ways I’m still unpacking, like a suitcase I shoved into the back of my closet after a chaotic trip.

I’ve come to realize that where we’re from is more than just geography or population size—it’s an emotional blueprint that follows us everywhere. And, like any blueprint, it shapes how we build everything else: friendships, community, even romance. So, let’s dive into my complicated situationship with Beaumont and what it’s taught me about connection, identity, and the places that never quite let you go.

The Nostalgia is Real (and Occasionally Annoying)

When I think about Beaumont, the first thing that comes to mind is the smell of refinery oil mixed with fresh-cut grass. Not exactly perfume, but comforting in its own weird way. Beaumont was the kind of place where everyone waved at you from their truck—even strangers—though you also heard your business repeated at Sunday service if you left the house wearing the wrong pair of shoes. If you’ve ever had your aunt’s next-door neighbor critique your life choices through a sweet potato pie analogy, you’ll understand the vibe.

I’m not going to lie: growing up there sometimes made me feel like I was trapped in one big small-town TikTok, endlessly looping the same gossip, same faces, and the same impossibly slow drives down Calder Avenue behind tractors. But at the same time, Beaumont had belonging. We didn’t lock our doors most nights (a fact that, looking back, stresses me out now). Kids rode bikes until the porch lights came on. Everyone knew your name—sometimes a little too well—but that kind of familiarity holds a certain magic.

And love stemming from familiarity? That’s a double-edged sword. It’s like keeping your ex’s playlist on repeat. There’s comfort there, sure, but also a sense that you’re stuck reminiscing instead of moving forward.

First Flirts with Freedom

When I left Beaumont for college, I had stars in my eyes and a playlist of Destiny’s Child on repeat. The whole world—or at least, Southern Louisiana—felt like it was mine to conquer. At my HBCU, I found people who didn’t just know my story; they celebrated it. They let me explore all the parts of myself I’d kept a little more buttoned-up back in East Texas: the bookish kid, the occasional theater nerd, the young queer man trying to figure out what that identity even meant in a religious, largely traditional environment.

Leaving Beaumont was a lot like entering a new relationship where your new partner is nothing like your ex. Everything felt different, shiny, and a little overwhelming. Not that Houston or Chicago (or really adulthood in general) was perfect—but when you’ve grown up with a limited view of possibilities, anything else feels like an endless buffet. You suddenly find yourself trying on new flavors of personality and habits: brunches, board game nights, overpriced cocktails with names like “Smoky Introspection” (spoiler alert: it was bourbon with a rosemary sprig).

But leaving didn’t mean I stopped thinking about Beaumont. Whether you’re driving away from a hometown or an old relationship, there’s always that nagging voice whispering, “Will anything else ever feel like home?”

When Home Doesn’t Love You Back

If I’m honest, part of my mixed feelings about Beaumont comes from how it viewed me. Growing up gay in a town steeped in church culture meant doing a lot of emotional acrobatics. Call it code-switching lite. While some folks were supportive, others stayed locked into the “pray the gay away” playbook. The challenges of being queer in Beaumont extended beyond playground teasing—it colored everything from friendships to family dinners to dating prospects. I once heard someone describe small-town dating like trying to buy clothes from the clearance rack at a department store. You’re just hoping something fits, even if you don’t love the style.

I think about this sometimes when I hear platitudes like, “Home is where the heart is.” Maybe that’s true. But what if your home also made you carefully ration how much of your true heart you could show? Living there taught me resilience, no doubt about that. But it also put me face-to-face with the idea that love isn’t always unconditional—not in relationships, not in community, and certainly not in all the places we’re from.

Lessons Learned About Love (and Leaving)

Still, I’d be lying if I said hardship didn’t grow me. Leaving Beaumont taught me lessons that are surprisingly useful in romantic relationships:

  • You Can’t Ignore the Past. Just like you can’t pretend your hometown quirks don’t exist, you can’t pretend a partner’s past isn’t part of the person they are today. Acknowledging where you’ve both come from is foundational. Beaumont taught me that.

  • Sometimes, Distance Adds Perspective. Whether it’s a town or a relationship, stepping away can show you what you really miss—and what might not have been as rosy as you remember. Time away from home gave me the clarity to appreciate its warmth but also understand its limits.

  • Love, Even Imperfect, Can Still Matter. One thing I admire about Beaumont is how it holds on—through hurricanes, industrial plant closures, and whatever else life throws at it. It has a way of showing up even when it’s a mess, kind of like how we work through challenges in relationships.

Closing the Loop

Now that I’m older, I’ve found peace in balancing my feelings about Beaumont. It’s not a perfect place. Honestly, no place is. But it’s my origin story, even with all its flaws and headaches. Loving Beaumont isn’t about glossing over its faults; it’s about acknowledging them while celebrating the good.

If home is where the heart is, then Beaumont will always have a piece of mine. Sure, it’s the piece wearing a “Keep Austin Weird” T-shirt while secretly wishing for fried catfish from the neighborhood fish fry. It’s the piece that knows Luther Vandross isn’t just music; it’s therapy. It’s the piece that carries every lesson from my upbringing—good, bad, or otherwise—into every new connection I make.

So, here’s to complicated homes, messy love, and the beautiful way they shape us. Whether you’ve wandered far or stayed put, the journey’s always worth it.