They say home is where the heart is, but what do you do when your heart feels torn between loving it and wanting to pack the U-Haul overnight? Growing up in Miami—a city where pastelitos and traffic jams reign supreme—my relationship with home feels a little like an on-again, off-again romance. Some days, I’d send Miami a “just thinking of you” text (usually when the winter in Chicago hit hard), but on other days, I’d leave it on read, annoyed by everything from the humidity to its obsession with reggaeton remixes.

If coming from a culture-rich, chaotically beautiful place like Miami has taught me anything, though, it’s that love/hate relationships with home are more universal than we’re willing to admit. So, here’s my ode to the city that raised me—a messy cocktail of affection, eye rolls, and self-awareness.

Part 1: The Love – Where Everybody Knows Your Name (and Your Tía’s Chisme)

For as long as I can remember, Miami has thrummed with the kind of energy you don’t just hear—you feel. Growing up in a house packed with grandparents, parents, and an endless rotation of visiting relatives, I learned quickly that “space” was negotiable, but love never was. Family was priority uno, whether it was my abuela’s insistence that I eat more rice than medically necessary or my dad teaching me the unspoken rule of Miami roads: “Everyone drives like it’s their last day on earth, así que suelta el freno."

In many ways, the city mirrored my family dynamics. Miami is loud, unapologetically itself, and full of quirks—like how everyone somehow knows each other through “un primo de un amigo.” Nothing says Miami like bonding with strangers in Spanglish over which bakery has the best croquetas (the answer is always shockingly passionate and occasionally leads to drama).

Then there’s the weather. Sure, it’s hotter-than-an-air-fryer half the year, but you can’t deny the absolute flex of wearing flip-flops in January while sipping café con leche outside. Home was the sound of salsa music spilling out of car windows, the smell of roasted pork at every family party, and sunsets that made me wonder if I’d ever find this kind of beauty anywhere else.

Part 2: The Hate – Humidity, Hurricanes, and Everyone Being “Extra”

Of course, no great love is without its moments of frustration—and when you live in Miami, those moments have names: August, September, and October. Hurricane season was an annual reminder that we lived on nature’s version of a tightrope. I still have flashbacks to taping up our windows and praying that the power wouldn’t go out (spoiler: it always did). If you’ve ever tried to sleep in 90-degree heat with no AC, you’ll understand why I’ve both cursed and thanked Miami in the same breath.

Then there’s the traffic. Oh, the traffic. Driving on I-95 feels less like commuting and more like auditioning for Fast & Furious 27: Miami Drift. Highways around here seem to operate on their own set of laws, none of which involve turn signals. And don’t get me started on the parking situation—it’s like Cinderella meets capitalism: your car turns into a pumpkin every time you think you’ve found a free space, only to spot the $20 valet sign.

And honestly, sometimes Miami can feel like it’s trying too hard to be the trendy friend in your group. Whether it’s the influencer brunch culture or the explosion of overpriced rooftop bars, I sometimes wonder if my hometown is stuck in a mid-life crisis (but admittedly, it still looks great for its age).

Part 3: Reconciling the Two – When Nostalgia Hits Like a Bad Ex

Like every relationship, my love/hate with Miami is partly about perspective. When I moved to Chicago for a few years, I was dazzled by the seasons, but the absence of cafecito joints on every corner? Gut-wrenching. Miami spoiled me with conversations where you only had to say “mi’jo” for people to know they were family. When I complained about my upbringing—the noise, the lack of personal space, the endless unsolicited advice—I never imagined how much I’d miss it.

When you grow up in a city as distinct as Miami, it becomes part of your DNA. The rhythm of it, the sabor—it follows you everywhere, even to places where winter feels like punishment. I learned to love Chicago’s chilly beauty, but the first time I heard someone pronounce “croqueta” with a hard “t,” I started Googling flights back home.

Part 4: Lessons from a Love/Hate Relationship with Home

Living in two cities helped me understand something vital: you don’t have to love everything about your hometown to appreciate what it gave you. Miami taught me resilience, warmth, and the ability to dance (and argue) simultaneously—necessary skills in both relationships and life. Here are a few lessons from my not-always-smooth journey with home:

  • Embrace the quirks. Whether it’s your family’s Sunday domino marathons or your city’s obsession with artisanal empanadas, these are the things that will stick with you. Lean into them.
  • Appreciate the balance. Every place—and person—has its pros and cons. If you focus only on the flaws, you’ll miss the moments that make it special.
  • There’s no place like home—sort of. Home isn’t just a zip code or palm trees swaying in the breeze. It’s the relationships, the food, and the memories you carry with you.

Part 5: Back Home (But With Better Boundaries)

Now that I’m back in Miami, I like to think I’ve made peace with the love/hate thing. I kept some lessons from my time in Chicago, like the value of walking places (though good luck doing that in the suburbs here), and brought back a fresh appreciation for what Miami offers. Yes, I’ll probably always complain about the hurricanes and the constant construction, but when my abuela lights up at the sight of me eating seconds of her ropa vieja, I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

So here’s my unsolicited advice: It’s okay to be frustrated with where you’re from. Loving home doesn’t mean ignoring its flaws—it just means recognizing that, for better or worse, it shaped you. And sometimes, all it takes is one perfect Miami sunset to remind me that, against all odds, I really do love this place.