My Love/Hate Relationship with Home

Home is supposed to be where the heart is, right? A refuge, a safe haven, maybe even the perfect backdrop for your most cinematic love stories. But growing up in Beijing, my relationship with home felt more like a crowded subway ride during rush hour: sometimes comforting in its rhythmic chaos, other times so suffocating I wanted to hurl myself out at the next station.

Don’t get me wrong. I adore Beijing. Its ancient temples and cutting-edge skyscrapers coexist in a way that feels oddly poetic. It’s like seeing an old married couple still holding hands at a Billie Eilish concert. But no city, no matter how photogenic on a postcard, can escape being complicated when it’s tangled with your history. So, pull up a chair (or sit cross-legged on your tatami mat), and let’s dive into this messy little love story—with plot twists that could rival one of my romance novels.

Home as the Overbearing Parent

If Beijing were a person, it’d be the kind of elder who insists you wear a scarf in 20°C weather, interrogates you about your future during every family dinner, and yet sneakily slips extra cash into your pocket when you’re not looking. And honestly? Growing up in a house filled with ambitious conversations about Confucian values and the nuances of Tang Dynasty poetry, I constantly felt like I had something to prove. I was that kid who’d rehearse answering, “What are your life goals?” in the mirror just in case a relative blindsided me at a reunion.

There’s something about a city rich with 3,000 years of history that makes you question your own identity. How do you stand out in a place where even the alleyways (hutongs) seem to whisper, “Oh, sweetie, you think you’re interesting?” It’s impossible to flirt with your individuality without feeling like you’re being graded on a cultural pop quiz. The weight of tradition is as inspiring as it is exhausting.

If you’ve ever felt like dating that perfect-on-paper person who demands 110%, you’ll know: it’s sexy until it’s draining. That’s Beijing for me. Sometimes it felt like the city wasn’t cheering me on—it was expecting results.

The Modern Romance: Tradition Meets Tinder Swipe

Fast-forward to my early 20s. Studying in New York on exchange was like dating someone radically different than “your type.” Suddenly, I had space to breathe—or, more accurately, to casually jaywalk without worrying about five uncles reporting back to my parents. If Beijing was an über-traditional partner, New York was the wild romantic rebound. It whispered daring things like, “Skip the metro—walk aimlessly instead.” I didn’t have to justify my choices; I just had to make them.

But here’s where it gets real: no matter how carefree and thrilling New York felt, I’d find myself googling where to get decent jianbing (a savory Chinese crepe) at 2 a.m. Call it homesickness or FOMO baked into my taste buds—it was a reminder that your roots cling to you in mysterious ways. That brings me to my first takeaway:

Actionable Tip #1: Love your roots, but don’t let them strangle you. It’s okay to grow beyond what you’ve known, as long as you’re not doing it out of rebellion alone. Growth is sexy; spite isn’t.

A City That Plays Third Wheel

Here’s the thing no one warns you about when it comes to where you grow up: it never fully leaves your relationships alone. I’ve had dates destroyed by Beijing traffic (two hours stuck on the Third Ring Road will kill any budding romance). I’ve also dated people who found my love for traditional operas weirder than my obsession with translating Tang Dynasty poems. One ex even said, “You’re like, so loyal to your culture. How… quaint?” (Let’s just say that relationship didn’t last long.)

But being home also taught me what I value in love. The clatter of a Beijing noodle shop reminded me that I’ll always choose connection over perfection. Walking through the Summer Palace in autumn? That’s how I learned I crave depth—people with stories, layers, and maybe even some scars.

There’s a reason Beijing is sometimes called the “city of lovers”—the kinds of lovers who argue passionately outside the Forbidden City at 10 p.m., then make up by sharing a roast duck at midnight. That perfect mess mirrored back to me what I wanted: not a love as pristine as a Ming vase, but one as durable and soulful as the city’s ancient walls.

Loving Home Without Apology

With all its quirks, challenges, and constant reminders of how little I know (seriously, how did my grandparents memorize hundreds of Tang poems by age five?), Beijing taught me something that no other place could: authenticity. You can’t fake connection when you’re surrounded by a city that’s unafraid to show its age, its scars, and its persistence to reinvent itself. And in love and relationships, isn’t that what we all need more of?

Actionable Tip #2: Take a cue from my hometown—don’t be afraid to show your layers. Be the person who lets their humor, vulnerability, and awkwardness shine. Someone out there is dying to share your roast duck at midnight.

The Takeaway: Love Is a Little Bit of Everything

So, where do I stand now in this love/hate relationship? Well, Beijing and I are in couples therapy—but the healthy kind. Time and distance have taught me to stop treating my roots like an anchor and start treating them like a trampoline: something I can spring off of when I need to, but also return to without guilt. No matter where I roam, Beijing is always the third wheel on my dates, the whisper in my ear, the occasional push when I doubt myself.

Actionable Tip #3: Just like a hometown, love shouldn’t demand you stay the same. Let it challenge you, inspire you, and, when you need it, ground you. And remember: the only kind of perfect is perfectly messy.

Walking through my city now, I laugh at younger-me who wanted to argue with every hutong. That teen didn’t realize she was already in love—just too proud to admit it. Home, much like love, doesn’t always look the way we expect. But when you learn to make peace with it, you might just find beauty in the chaos. ❤️