I’ve always described my relationship with home as my longest-running, slow-burn romance. Charleston, South Carolina: the city of jasmine-scented breezes, cobblestone streets, and postcard-perfect pastel houses—what’s not to love? But dig a little deeper, and you might find the shadows lurking between the creaky shutters of those historic homes. And let me tell you, when you grow up in a place where everybody claims to remember the exact pew your great-grandma sat in at church, you can develop complicated feelings about it.

Let’s be real—home is a lot like that ex you just can’t quit. There’s attraction, nostalgia, frustration, and occasionally something bordering on resentment. So for anyone wrestling with their own love/hate relationship with their hometown, let me pull back the lace curtains on my own story, because trust me, I get it.

The Infatuation Phase

First, let’s talk about the initial allure of Charleston. How could a girl raised in the shadow of the Gullah Geechee culture not feel a sense of deep connection? My grandparents, steeped in a rich oral tradition, told stories as vivid as the fuchsia azaleas blooming in spring. These tales wrapped me in belonging—a feeling so powerful it could take your breath away, like eating a bowl of she-crab soup too fast.

You never forget home’s first impression. Growing up in the Lowcountry felt like being wrapped in marshmallow-soft sunlight—a mix of fried chicken lunches after church, neighbors who knew your business before you did, and beach trips where the pluff mud threatened to steal your flip-flops forever.

But even here, love is not without its quirks. The flip side of this intoxicating charm? That Small Town Syndrome where you can’t run to the Piggly Wiggly without seeing someone from tenth-grade biology. Sometimes familiarity feels less like comfort and more like surveillance.

The “It’s Complicated” Years

Dating someone who looks great on paper? That’s Charleston for me. You know what I mean: on the surface, everything feels dreamy. People hear you’re from Charleston and start swooning. “Oh, my gosh, it’s so beautiful there!” And it is, but only in the way someone who leaves all their dirty laundry shoved under the bed is beautiful. You don’t know what’s hiding beneath unless you’ve lived here.

Case in point—the oft-romanticized liminality of Southern living. Charleston is a city stuck in a tug-of-war between the past and the present. Those charming carriage rides trotting by rainbow-colored houses? Let me introduce you to the layers of complicated history they glide over. For me, growing up here meant learning to reconcile pride in my heritage with the hard truths of who and what shaped this place. It’s a history that’s equal parts bittersweet, like boiled peanuts—messy, salty, and often hard to digest.

It was also during my teenage years that the suffocating nature of a close-knit community really hit me. There’s a certain romanticism to everyone knowing your extended family until they start showing up to events asking when you’re finally getting married. Spoiler: When you feel smothered by someone or someplace, it’s only natural to dream of greener (or at least quieter) pastures.

The Breakup That Wasn’t

Sometimes, love needs space to grow—or, at least that’s what I told myself when I packed up for Atlanta at 18. Atlanta felt like an adrenaline rush with its shiny skyline and endless possibilities. And those possibilities smelled like freedom, fresh opportunities, and Chick-fil-A waffle fries. Whenever someone brought up Charleston, I dodged the topic like it was 2 AM at Waffle House and the drama was about to pop off.

Distance gives you perspective, though. I found myself defending Charleston more than I expected, especially to the people who only saw the charm but couldn’t grasp its complexities. “It’s not just beaches and boiled peanuts,” I’d snap. “It’s history and resilience.” Their confused expressions made me realize I was the one caught between letting go and holding on.

By the time grad school in New York rolled around, Charleston had become more memory than reality—a kind of nostalgic ache. But like an ex who keeps texting “u up?”, Charleston found ways to remind me of its presence—through accents, smells, and random cravings for ambrosia salad (don’t ask).

Finding the Sweet Spot—A Compromise

Eventually, you come back, physically or emotionally. My grown-up relationship with Charleston is a bit like rekindling a connection with an old flame but setting healthier boundaries. I’ve learned to choose what I embrace and what I let slide.

For example:
- I celebrate the traditions that fill me up. Eating okra stew that tastes like it has been blessed by my ancestors. Sharing Gullah Geechee folktales with my niece so the roots stay alive.
- I call out what needs to change. Whether it’s confronting uncomfortable truths about Charleston’s history or cringing over the way it sometimes markets itself as a charming Southern fantasy, I make sure my love isn’t blind.
- I spend more time in the places that heal me. Sometimes that’s the marsh where the sky stretches wide and the herons don’t care what anyone thinks. Other times, it’s the comfort of my parents’ porch, listening to cicadas buzz while we sip lemonade and gossip about the neighbors’ dog.

Like any long-term relationship, learning to love my hometown meant seeing it for what it is, not just what I wish it could be. It meant forgiving its faults without excusing them and making peace with the ways it shaped me—both the good and the challenging.

Your Own Love/Hate Story

So, what does this mean for your relationship with your hometown? Let me be clear: you don’t owe your heart to a place just because you came from it. Feeling conflicted about home doesn’t make you ungrateful—it makes you human.

Here’s my advice on navigating what could otherwise feel like emotional quicksand:
1. Get distance when you need it. Moving away or taking breaks don’t mean you’re abandoning home—it means you’re making space to see it clearly.
2. Focus on what adds value. Tradition, nostalgia, and connection can be powerful anchors if they bring joy, not guilt.
3. Acknowledge the messy bits. Defining your relationship with home means naming the hard stuff, whether that’s personal baggage or unresolved history. Being honest about shortcomings is part of healing.

If your hometown feels like an ex you just can’t figure out, know this: relationships take time, effort, and compromise. But the beauty of loving anywhere is that you get to decide what love looks like.

Closing the Door (and Cracking a Window)

Charleston and I aren’t perfect; we’ve had our fights, silent treatments, and long periods apart. But in its unpredictable way, it always finds a way to remind me why I loved it in the first place. Remember, no matter how tricky your relationship with home feels, there’s no rulebook that says you can’t write a love story with messy chapters. And just like any good Southern charm school would say—bless this journey, even if it gets a little untidy along the way.