I’ve always believed in the poetry of small spaces. Growing up in suburban Japan, my corner of the world wasn’t particularly flashy. Picture a postcard-worthy hillside dotted with modest homes, a single railway that hummed reassurance into the silence, and a local konbini that stocked everything from Pocky sticks to the latest gossip. Idyllic, right? Sure—until you’re an angsty teenager and that hum starts to feel more like a drone, the peacefulness becomes a prison, and you can’t help but wonder if the rest of the world is living while you’re snoozing to the lull of predictability.

Now, decades later, I see my hometown with bifocal lenses—one glass tinted with affection, the other slightly smudged with exasperation. They say love and hate are two sides of the same coin, and I’ve rolled that emotional currency with my hometown more than I’d care to admit.

Chapter One: Teenage Rebellion, Minus the Drama of a Hollywood Script

When I was sixteen, I was convinced that my little hometown was the universe’s counterargument to excitement. Tokyo was only about an hour away, but it felt like another dimension—one of possibility, anonymity, and those glittering Ferris wheels splashed across every J-drama. Meanwhile, my own backyard offered neighborhood uncles complaining about poorly sorted recycling bins and a karaoke bar where the mic cut out if the pitch got too high.

The thing about growing up in a place like this was that you couldn’t reinvent yourself—not really. No matter how loud your headphones blared Hikaru Utada or how many layers of eyeliner you put on to channel Avril Lavigne, you’d still bump into your middle school math teacher carrying radishes at the local farmers' market. In a small town, you’re painfully knowable.

It turns out that’s not always a bad thing. At a time when I constantly questioned if I was too much (too serious, too quiet, too weird), my town had a way of accepting me without asking big questions. I could just be. You don’t appreciate that kind of grace when you’re standing on the edge of adulthood, itching to leap elsewhere. It’s only after you’ve leapt that you start to value the safety net of home.

Chapter Two: Love in a Land of Simplicity

Fast forward to my university years, when I found myself wandering the sprawling streets of Tokyo. It was like dating someone who is out of your league: electric and impossible to keep up with. My new home was skyscrapers, avant-garde galleries, and ramen shops that stayed open until 4 a.m. I was in love—or so I thought.

Tokyo taught me plenty about the thrill of the unfamiliar, but it also made me appreciate why people say first loves are the hardest to forget. In Tokyo, I chased speed and grandeur; in my hometown, I found rhythm. There, time stretched out like neatly folded laundry—the comforting monotony of the everyday. While Tokyo glamorized urgency, my childhood home slowed me down just enough to taste the tea, really listen to the cicadas, and linger in the smile of someone I’d known since kindergarten. It turns out love doesn’t always require fireworks. Sometimes, it’s found in the quiet whir of a ceiling fan on a sleepy afternoon.

Chapter Three: Memory as a Double-Edged Sword

Here’s the tricky part about “home”—it’s not just rooted in geography; it’s tied to time. Returning years later as an adult meant confronting the ghost of my younger self. The train station seemed smaller, the local flower shop run by Mrs. Yamamoto had morphed into a chain bakery, and the arcade where I’d had my first kiss was now a bank (is there anything more symbolic?).

If nostalgia is a form of time travel, then my visits home felt like watching reruns of a show I once loved but outgrew. And yet, something beckoned me back—not just the sake-fueled reunions with old friends or the charm of familiarity, but the reminder of who I was before I came to understand ambition, heartbreak, or even my own identity. In a way, home was the first mirror that reflected my potential. Sure, the angles were a bit skewed, but it showed me as both fragile and whole—a girl who simultaneously wanted everything and was afraid to take it.

So, Do You Have to Love Where You’re From?

The honest answer: Not entirely. Loving who it made you, however? That’s non-negotiable.

Here’s what I’ve learned from years of running away, drifting back, and circling endlessly around the idea of home:

  • Appreciate Its Imperfections. The train you loathed for being almost comically slow? It taught you patience. The nosy neighbors who made privacy obsolete? They knew to bring soup when you were sick before you even asked.
  • Define “Home” for Yourself. Maybe it’s not the house or the town or even the people—it’s the feeling. That grounding sense of familiarity you can recreate with tiny rituals, like a cup of tea brewed just how your mom makes it or planting hydrangeas the way your dad used to.
  • Understand That It’s OK to Mourn Change. Places evolve just like people do. It’s natural to miss the way things were, but it’s also an invitation to reimagine your relationship with what remains.

The Grass Isn’t Always Greener—But It’s Still Grass

At the end of the day, my hometown is neither my happily-ever-after nor my villain origin story. It’s a middle ground—a patchwork of love and frustration stitched together by time. And maybe that’s how it should be. It’s the place where I learned to dream beyond what I could see, and also where I learned the beauty of rootedness. Like a hydrangea that changes its blooms depending on the soil’s composition, I became someone who shifts between worlds yet remains shaped by home.

So, if you ever find me sipping a matcha latte and staring wistfully out the window of a cafe, know this: I’m thinking about the sound of our creaky front door. The smell of an autumn breeze rolling in through my childhood window. The feeling of walking barefoot in my parents’ garden. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine—and that’s more than enough.