You can’t talk about loving something deeply without occasionally wanting to punt it into the metaphorical Boise River, and for me, that “something” has always been my hometown. Growing up in Boise, Idaho—where the foothills meet downtown’s craft beer scene—is a little like rewatching The Office: comforting and familiar, but occasionally you wonder if it's time to switch to something edgier. And yet, Boise has this way of sneaking into your bloodstream, like the smell of sagebrush after a summer rain. You can leave, but it never really leaves you.

Like any relationship worth its salt, my connection with Boise has gone through phases: infatuation, rebellion, avoidance, and hesitant reconciliation. Just like that one relationship where you’re inexplicably drawn back to excruciating family brunches (even though you “accidentally” forgot the mimosas), Boise keeps pulling me in. Let me take you through the highs, the lows, and what living here taught me about love, commitment, and sometimes, the importance of creating emotional distance.

The Honeymoon Phase: Kids and Kickball in the North End

Growing up in Boise's North End might as well have been scripted by a warm, indie movie director—think Little Miss Sunshine, sans the vintage VW van. Lazy bike rides down tree-lined streets, lemonade stands where no one really drank the lemonade, and playing kickball until the mosquitoes were a full-blown assault team. Idyllic, right? My grandparents were potato farmers, and my parents brewed beer—no metaphor there; that’s just peak Idaho upbringing.

But here's the kicker: for every charming day selling Girl Scout cookies to neighbors, there was the suffocating reality of how insular our little neighborhood felt. Everyone knew which house gave full-size candy bars on Halloween, and everyone knew when you came home past curfew because they saw your dad’s truck in the driveway. Boise had this small-town familiarity that practically screamed, “You’ll never leave me.”

It was cozy. It was claustrophobic. It was complicated.

The Rebellion: Escaping Otter-Pop Suburbia

Like every teenager who grew up in a place people call “quaint,” I started itching to get out. At Boise High, my debate coach once called me “ridiculously precocious,” which wasn’t exactly a compliment during a tournament. But hey, rebellious streaks aren’t exclusively for bad poetry and side-swept bangs—you can rebel with a subscription to The New Yorker and a burning desire to move to Chicago.

I loved escaping to bigger cities—the endless skyline of Seattle, Denver’s foodie scene, Chicago’s relentless, caffeinated pace—but I had a sneaking suspicion Boise had ruined me for good. There’s a specific disorientation that comes from being raised on crisp mountain air and quiet evenings, only to find yourself stuck in traffic on I-90, wailing to Death Cab for Cutie while you miss a Boise sunrise. It’s like dating someone way too suave for you: thrilling at first, but deep down, you just want to text your ex about the one hike you both loved (yes, this metaphor is about Table Rock).

Coming Back—With Baggage

By the time I moved back to Boise in my late twenties, it felt like reuniting with an old flame at a high school reunion: familiar, yes, but borderline uncomfortable. Downtown had morphed into something shinier, full of rooftop bars and a surprising number of kombucha-on-tap options. It wasn’t the Boise I’d grown up with—potato fields? Not a glimpse. But it wasn’t not Boise either.

For instance, multiple breweries were still serving beer named after local landmarks—Chief Joseph, Payette Pale Ale—and Basque Market was still dishing out paella that could make just about anyone commit to living here indefinitely. Yet, alongside that homespun charm was the uneasy realization that Boise was like one of those people who glows up post-breakup. Did I really fit here anymore?

It’s a little like being on the dating circuit after a long-term relationship—it’s familiar, but it feels like you’re on a completely different wavelength.

What Moving Back Taught Me About Love

Here’s the funny thing about “home”: it’s less about the place itself and more about the relationship you have with it. For better or worse, your hometown teaches you some unmistakable lessons about connection.

  1. Roots Are Your Foundation—But Not Your Whole Tree.
    Boise taught me to value stability. My hometown is the reason I can whip up potato soup like nobody’s business, the reason I care about community in a small-but-mighty way. But it also showed me I needed to branch out. Just like healthy relationships thrive on interdependence, not codependence, I had to learn to love Boise without being entirely defined by it.

  2. Even the Best Relationships Need Growth.
    Modern Boise isn’t 2005 Boise, and honestly, that’s a good thing. A “relationship” (aka your feelings about your hometown) doesn’t stagnate if you allow it to evolve. Change might be uncomfortable, but downtown now bustles in a way that gives me hope for the city’s future. Growth is messy but worthwhile. Does this sound suspiciously like relationship advice? Maybe, but aren’t cities like partners anyway—full of flaws, weird quirks, and occasional made-up words like “Boisean”?

  3. Love Is What You Keep Coming Back To.
    They say if you love something, set it free. I say, if you love something, prove it by driving to Fry Boise on a random weeknight just to get their garlic fried chicken. It’s the little things that tether us to the ones we love—whether it’s a partner, a city, or yes, even Idahoan-isms like knowing every single hot spring within 50 miles.

Falling Back In Love—The Weirdly Healthy Kind

If my relationship with Boise started as an intoxicating teenage romance and morphed into a phase where everything about it annoyed me (seriously, why so much plaid?), it’s now settled into something far more profound. Returning here has taught me to appreciate small comforts, to look for joy not in the flashiness of something new but in the steadiness of knowing one place better than just about anyone else.

Boise, like love, isn’t perfect. The potholes downtown are a mild disaster, public transit is a perennial work-in-progress, and that faint scent of malt near the brewery district still bugs me sometimes. But it’s mine—stubborn, beautiful, unfairly underrated, mine.

Like any healthy relationship, loving Boise now means embracing it for all its quirks. I’ll take its sleepy winters, chaotic Farmer’s Markets, and postcard-worthy views over just about anywhere. Because if love is about showing up, imperfections and all, then Boise is my reminder to do the same.

And hey, if it doesn’t work out, at least there’s always paella.