Growing up in Bar Harbor can best be described as living inside a postcard—and sometimes wanting to rip it up. Picture this: dramatic ocean vistas, lobster buoys dotting the water like confetti, and tourists in socks-and-sandals asking where they can “find the puffins.” For some, that’s paradise. For a hometown girl like me? It’s complicated.

Mount Desert Island has a way of sinking its salty claws into your heart, but it also has a knack for making you want to run screaming into the woods. And trust me, there are plenty of woods for that. My relationship with home has always teetered somewhere between swooning over an Acadia sunset and cursing the fact that a trip to the nearest Target requires a full tank of gas and half a day of precious life.

Let’s explore it, shall we?

1. The Overexposure Problem: When “Quaint” Stops Being Cute

Living somewhere postcard-perfect has its perks. As a kid, I was blissfully unaware of how uncanny my life looked to outsiders. Friends from school vacations were agape at photos of tidepools I’d explored while their summer highlight was the local pool’s diving board. But eventually, the novelty wears off.

In Bar Harbor, the line between idyllic and mundane gets blurry. After your 137th moody sunrise over Cadillac Mountain or your millionth whiff of briny air, you find yourself craving, of all things, mediocrity. People in cities don’t realize how good they have it. A bodega on every corner? A Starbucks that doesn’t close at 3 p.m.? That’s a level of convenience we coasties can only dream about.

And don’t get me started on the summer crowds. Being subjugated to throngs of slow-walking tourists on Cottage Street taught me patience the way being forced to share a vacation house with 20 extended relatives breeds tolerance. If you’ve ever been stuck behind a carefree visitor taking up an entire sidewalk while loudly debating if a lobster roll is worth $27 (it’s not, by the way), you’ll know what I mean.

2. Nature, the Best and Worst Roommate

Now, don’t get me wrong—nature is spectacular. Heaven must look a lot like a quiet morning on Sand Beach. But nature, my constant companion, has a way of serving up tough love.

For example, when you’re young, the idea of running barefoot through seaweed is enchanting, until a rogue eel wriggles too close and suddenly you’re auditioning for your own personal horror movie. Or winter—oh, winter. The bitterness of a Mount Desert winter could humble even Jon Snow. Snowbanks taller than me, frozen toes despite triple-layered wool socks, and strong winds that could scarf-snatch you into the next county—romantic and rugged, sure, but practical? Hardly.

Still, living in a place ruled by tides and seasons teaches you something profound: compromise. You gain a deep understanding of give-and-take. For every blizzard-battered winter evening, there’s a spring afternoon full of seaglass glimmers and lupine blooms. It’s nature’s way of reminding us that nothing lasts—including bad times. (A comforting lesson for life, but also breakups. Trust me.)

3. Hometown Dating: Is There a Lobsterman Swipe Right?

Have you ever been set up by your grandmother? Not metaphorically—my Nana once gave my number to a “very eligible” lobsterman she met at the farmer’s market. Living here means the dating pool is... shallow. Intimately shallow, like that one tidepool in Acadia with 15 hermit crabs awkwardly eyeing each other. Sure, I could visit Bar Harbor’s one dive bar, but meeting someone who isn’t a seasonal worker or your middle school lab partner reincarnated is no small feat.

Dating here feels like one of those hallmark rom-com setups: a quirky small-town girl and a broody artisan who reclaims driftwood somehow fall in love over a cider donut at the harvest festival. Except it’s real life, not Netflix, and broody often translates to “emotionally unavailable crab fisherman” while quirky looks more like “knows exactly how many ticks she pulled off her dog this week.” It’s not bad—it’s just...specific.

In hindsight, though, navigating relationships where everyone knows everyone (including their exes’ dog’s names) prepared me to appreciate the art of small moments and genuine connection. Forget grand gestures; in a town this small, they’d just boomerang back and knock you down.

4. Healing in the Ebb and Flow

For all my complaints, I can’t help but feel like my love-hate relationship with home mirrors any complex relationship in our lives. Bar Harbor is like the one that got away and stayed anyway. You love its quirks but often wish it wasn’t so unapologetically itself. It taught me independence while simultaneously reminding me of the power of community. It gave me the gift of quiet reflection between crashing waves.

When I moved away for college, I mourned leaving its rocky embrace, but I also felt liberated to slip into the pulsing chaos of city life. Bar Harbor called me back the way any good love does. It reminded me that home wasn’t about perfection or even convenience—it was about belonging to something bigger. A rhythm, a tide, a place that knows you in ways you might not have figured out just yet.

5. How to Navigate Your Feelings About Your Hometown

Whether you grew up in a city or a one-stoplight town (ah, a Maine classic), grappling with your roots is tricky. Here’s what living in Bar Harbor taught me about finding peace with your origin story:

  • Remember the How and Why: Why do you look back fondly—or with frustration? Pinpointing specific memories and emotions can help you untangle whether it’s the people, the routines, or something else entirely that shaped your feelings.

  • Give Yourself Distance: Perspective isn’t born when you’re standing too close to the masterpiece; it’s stepping back to take it in. Whether it’s a move across the country or just a long weekend away, space lets you miss the good stuff (and forget about the weather reports of doom).

  • See it Through New Eyes: Every time I show friends around Bar Harbor, I see a flicker of magic in their faces—and by osmosis, in my own. Showcasing your hometown to someone new can remind you why you once treasured it… or convince you there are better fish to fry elsewhere. Both are valid!

  • Create Peace with its Wrongs: No place (town or person) will check every box. Some days I curse the black flies; other days, I’m deeply grateful for the lesson in patience they bring. Folding the flaws into the bigger picture ultimately shapes acceptance.

As I write this, the Atlantic mist has rolled in again, blurring the edges of the horizon. That’s the thing about home—it doesn’t always give you the crisp clarity you crave. But in its foggy edges and salty breezeways, it teaches you something about who you are.

Bar Harbor? You’re imperfect, occasionally frustrating, and wildly beautiful. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Well... at least until I need that Starbucks run.