v. 61 You Can’t Go Home Again: On returning to a place that’s not mine anymore
Welcome to Life, Created — a weekly(ish) reflection on the wisdom of being a grown-ass human and staying curious when the world’s on fire. Part essay, part cultural commentary, and always rooted in microjoys, meaning, and the moments that make it all worthwhile.
Ira and I went back to our old neighborhood in Brooklyn recently. We’ve gone back often since moving away five years ago, enough that I thought I knew exactly what to expect on this particularly frigid December day. We’d walk the same blocks, stop for the same steaming bowl of phở, and visit the same familiar spots. But this time, something felt different. The view from the promenade was exactly the same, and the Brooklyn Bridge was right where we left it. Apparently, it never moves. The tiny Housing Works thrift store on Montague was still there, as was my go-to place to get a foot massage.
But two of my neighborhood touchstones were either closing or completely different. Colonie, my favorite restaurant in NYC, was in its final weekend after fourteen years. I lived in the neighborhood when it first opened in 2011, and so many memories were made in that space. A few years later, when my editor for A Year of Positive Thinking mailed the very first finished copy of my book, I had no idea it was coming. Ira and I were sitting at the counter at Colonie overlooking the open kitchen when he slid the wrapped package across to me. The chef was so excited that he celebrated with us , desserts all around. What a moment.
We knew the restaurant had recently announced its closing, but knowing isn’t the same as walking by and seeing the last days happening behind the glass. I had tried to book a reservation for the final week, but everyone else in the neighborhood loved that restaurant too. But by some lucky timing, Ira and I walked past, peeked inside, and someone waved us in. We sat at the bar on its final Saturday, shared a meal with friends, and soaked up the place one last time. Again, what a moment.
And then there was the family-run shop I wrote about in Microjoys in the essay titled “The Spice Shop.” The name is the same, but the feeling isn’t. The fourth generation of the family has taken over. I’m not sure who they are since they don’t seem to spend time there the way the previous generations did. The longtime staff, the people who used to know me by face and sometimes by name, have retired. One manager I recognized from those good ol’ days (all five years ago) was still there, and we talked at length. It’s a very different place now. You serve yourself olives. It’s no longer bustling with seven guys behind the counter, calling out numbers and joking while loading up bags with Middle Eastern treats. The layout has shifted. The shelves are similar. The name is the same but the feeling isn’t. It just doesn’t hold the delight it once did when it felt like part of the spirit of the neighborhood. This shop was one of the ways I knew I belonged there. Now it felt like a place I was visiting.
There’s something deeply comforting about familiar spots staying exactly as you left them. It tricks your mind into believing you still fit there in the way you once did. So when two of “my” anchors shifted at once, it became glaringly obvious that the version of me who lived there has changed too. I’m rooted somewhere else now. There was a real clarity inside that realization. Everything is temporary, even the things we’d swear will never change.
The people Ira and I are today aren’t the same people who lived in that sweet (but tiny) ground-floor apartment just five years ago. We’ve stretched into a life that feels right for where we are now. Maybe Brooklyn will fold itself back into our future. Who knows? Or maybe it will stay a place we loved wholeheartedly during a very specific chapter of our lives.
When we lived in Brooklyn, we had two senior cats who shaped our days in ways only senior cats can. Both of them have since passed. Rest in love, our sweet Ralphie and Jake. In Montclair, we have two different rescue cats who run the household with far more energy. Our routines are different, our neighborhood walks are different and the people we bump into are different folks. Even the way we come home at the end of the day feels different. Our life in Montclair isn’t a replacement for our lives in Brooklyn. It’s simply the life that fits us now.
You know I love nostalgia, y’all. But I’ve been reminded for the billionth time that we can’t go home again. Believe me, I’ve tried. The version of home I’m looking for isn’t one that exists today. It lives in decades of memories and in the details that belonged to an earlier version of me, a younger version of me. And those details are just as real as the life I’m living now, they’re simply part of a different chapter.
As Ira and I walked back to our car that evening, I felt a steady sense of ease settle in. Brooklyn shaped us, and Montclair holds us. And right now, this is the life that feels like home.
Every essay features a section called “One Fine Microjoy” – an experience, place, or thing that brings me joy, grace, and hope amidst life’s ups and downs. I hope it invites you to recognize and appreciate the delights that ground, inspire, and enrich our journey.
Our usual pink tree is gold this year!
This week’s microjoy: I love our usual pink holiday tree. Truly. But I also love change, and apparently I’m leaning into it this season. So this year we have a gold holiday tree, one I picked up for $10 at the end of last season, and I adore it. The sparkle, the shift, the tiny thrill of doing something different just because.
Also, we’ve learned that we can’t keep any ornaments on the bottom branches with Vivian skulking around, so… that’s our new reality. Weird, but here we are. Microjoys, anyway.
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With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
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