Growing up in Tahoe was like dating someone who is objectively gorgeous but occasionally insufferable. You love their beauty, their quirks, the way they light up a room—but every so often, they do that thing that makes you cringe and wonder why you’re still sticking it out. That’s been my relationship with the place I call home: stunningly scenic, but sometimes so small-town predictably loyal that it can feel like it’s keeping you stuck.

And yet, here I am, still tangled up in this lifelong affair, still finding reasons to love it, even when I catch myself daydreaming about a slick city life that smells like ambition instead of pine needles. If you’ve ever felt drawn to and repelled by the place you grew up, this one’s for you.

When Home Feels Like the Ex You Can’t Fully Quit

Let me set the scene: Tahoe summers are the definition of irresistible. Think denim-cutoff days spent jumping into glacier-fed water so clear that it’s like swimming in a mirror version of the sky. Winters aren’t too shabby either—a snow globe of ski runs and cozy fireplaces straight out of a Hallmark movie. It’s the kind of place where tourists dream of living.

But things change when you’re a local kid. Small towns are great when you can’t yet spell the word “options.” But by the time you’ve memorized the local hangouts, the local gossip, and the exact sound of Brad’s Subaru peeling out of the high school parking lot, you start imagining a bigger life.

Tahoe, for all its postcard perfection, can also feel…let’s say, claustrophobic. Everyone knows everyone—or at least everyone recognizes your truck parked outside the same general store where you’ve bought the same beef jerky every Friday since eighth grade. It’s charming in the way a Ross-and-Rachel relationship is charming—endearing until it makes you want to scream.

Here’s the thing. Living in a place this beautiful can feel like dating someone who’s always dressed to the nines for a party you didn’t agree to attend. It’s hard to imagine yourself moving on because everything about it promises perfect Instagram moments. But as residents, we know the truth. The plumbing in that party-perfect house? Decades old. And don’t even get me started on trying to get Taco Tuesday delivered in the winter. (Spoiler alert: you can’t.)

The Wanderlust Phase

When I was 18, I wanted out. Tahoe was too small for my outsized dreams. I applied to UC Davis partly because it felt like a step toward something bigger without entirely cutting the cord. Davis wasn’t exactly Manhattan, but it had stoplights and, like, two concert venues. I lived for the anonymity of rotating through coffee shops where no one knew me or my parents’ lodge. I devoured city atmospheres like I’d finally scored the big buffet after a life of living on chef’s specials.

In Davis, I learned to flirt with what I thought freedom looked like. I biked through college-town streets in the rain, fingered through used books in crowded thrift stores, and had my first taste of Vietnamese coffee—something my high school self couldn’t have imagined ordering. I studied sustainability, thinking I’d go into urban planning, move to Seattle or Portland, and transform into someone who owned stylish leather boots and commuted on public transit like a real grown-up.

And yet, when my friends and I packed up our dorm lives and scattered to internships and post-grad hustle, guess where I went back to? Good old Tahoe. It turns out that home has a gravitational pull, the kind that refuses to weaken no matter how far you drift. Think of it as MySpace—you might upgrade to a more modern platform, but you’ll never truly erase your old account.

The Honeymoon After the Breakup

Here’s something funny about leaving and coming back: absence really does make the heart grow fonder. Returning to Tahoe after college was like running into an old flame who mysteriously got hotter while you weren’t paying attention. My eyes reopened to all the things I once took for granted: silence unraveled over still water, fir trees creaking melodically under the weight of snow, family bonfires lit by a lakefront orange from sunsets most people drive hours to see. Being away helped me fall back in love.

But just like rekindling an old romance, moving back didn’t mean it was all smooth sailing from there. At first, it was exhilarating—like spontaneously accepting the friend recommendation of that ex on Instagram, only to realize posting thirst traps has been their full-time job. I embraced Tahoe's rustic charm again by hiking trails in my backyard and devising elaborate s’mores bars with hikers and lodge guests. Sure, I missed having five Thai restaurants within delivery distance, but it felt worth the trade.

And yet, even those fresh eyes don’t stay fresh forever. The things that made me feel proud of calling Tahoe home—its crystalline waters, its quiet—also cornered me. The lack of variety started to creep back in, and slowly but surely, I was back to swearing at our spotty Wi-Fi every time a Zoom call dropped mid-conversation.

Making Peace with Your First Love

Here’s what I’ve learned after years of living this on-again, off-again relationship with home: it’s okay not to be head-over-heels all the time. A love/hate relationship with your hometown doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful or disloyal; it just makes you human.

The truth is, sometimes you need contrast to appreciate what you’ve got. I needed Davis to see Tahoe clearly again, just like I need a taste of city life now and then to keep me from resenting a small-town pace. Being at peace with where you’re from doesn’t mean you stop wondering what could be out there—it just means you learn to love the messy truth of belonging to a place that holds a piece of you hostage and won’t apologize for it.

And you know, there are perks to settling in with that old love, the kind no one tells you about in your wanderlust phase. Like intimacy. Or comfort. Or knowing every inch of the ground you walk on, so well that you begin to hear its heartbeat.

Final Thoughts

If you feel conflicted about the place that raised you, don’t worry—you’re not alone. The push and pull of where you’re from is as natural as loving the best parts of someone while rolling your eyes at the annoying bits. My best advice? Let yourself feel both things. Dream of other places and still make a mental note of the sunsets you’d never find anywhere else. Move away if you need to—and trust that if home is worth loving, it’ll always wait quietly, like an old lover sitting by the fireplace, still sipping the same bourbon they were drinking when you first left.