The other weekend I went “home” to Maine for the wedding of one of my best friends from childhood and to celebrate my birthday with my parents. Like most people I have a complicated relationship with home. My current home is in Brooklyn, New York and probably will be for the foreseeable future (unless someone wants to offer me a job in Paris or London, hint hint). But usually when I refer to “home,” I mean Maine, where I grew up and where my parents still live. When I was a teenager I couldn’t wait to get out of Maine and transform myself into a bohemian urbanite. I am the first to admit I had romantic ideas about what life in the city would be like, and not a lot of idea about the heartache and hard work it would actually entail. As the years that I have lived in New York City go by I become more comfortable with where I am from, but I also don’t feel like I need to flaunt it. Accepting my home is also about accepting who I am and how it has shaped me.
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