For My Beloved México

I stepped out of the car, backpack in hand, after my dad pulled over to the curb. I looked at the entrance to LAX airport nostalgically as my parents got out to help me with my suitcase and wished me a safe trip back home.

Home. Where is home, anyway?

It feels odd leaving my childhood home, the home that I had grown up in since day one, the place that feels the most familiar to me yet so strange to return to each time. I remember how before I moved away, that itching feeling of wanting to get the hell out of there and pave my own way constantly gnawed at me. My eyes have always been focused on getting out there and exploring the world, collecting experiences, and creating memories. And don’t get me wrong—that’s still very much the case. Nothing has changed there. Yet, with each visit back to the first home I’d ever known, it feels just a tiny bit harder to leave again.

As my parents hugged me goodbye, I fought the urge to cry and told that anxious feeling to go away because now was just simply not the time; I could cry later when I was alone if I really needed to. I walked into the airport with a heavy heart, knowing just how much I was yet again going to miss seeing my parents and my brother every day. I wanted to cry at the thought that until my next visit, I wouldn’t be able to sleep with my cat and be awakened by her every morning as she crawled onto my chest to cuddle with me. I knew I was going to miss being the first one up early and walking down the stairs to make coffee for my mom and myself—we’re always the first ones up and my dad doesn’t like his coffee as strong as we do. I felt nostalgic thinking about the familiar streets that I’d driven on for years; to and from school and to all the jobs I’d had, to meet up with my friends, to go to the beach, or just to drive around with the windows down when I needed to clear my head, music blasting to lift my spirits as my hair got all knotted by the wind. I knew that yet again, I was going to miss the peace and quiet of the nature that surrounds my childhood home. Each time I return, I eat it up because I can’t get enough of it. Before I moved away, I always took for granted just how clear the sky is at night and just how many stars you can see– something I thought was a given no matter where you’d go. Now I know that’s not the case and oftentimes close my eyes to transport myself to my childhood home for a moment, laying on the driveway and remembering what the night sky looks like there, when in actuality I’m sitting in my own apartment in the big, bustling Mexico City, where I’ve been living for almost five years now.

All the little details I love about my first home ran through my mind as I placed my items onto the belt to be scanned at airport security. Feeling particularly sentimental, in part due to the realization that I was leaving what is understood to be home yet again, realizing how much I was going to miss my family and friends, and in part due to the fact that I just simply love being at the airport, I allowed what I was feeling to run through my veins until it reached my eyes; I felt them starting to sting a bit. But I just reminded myself that everything was going to be okay. It always turns out to be okay. I shook it off before my turn to go through the scanner. All clear. I picked up my belongings and continued onward.

As per my usual airport ritual, most of which is possible thanks to my dad teaching me to get to the airport with ample time before any flight, I sauntered over to buy myself a water bottle, a snack, and a coffee from a cafe near my gate. I found an empty seat and took out my book to occupy myself as I sipped on my coffee, waiting to board.

When I finally got onto the plane, any intention I had to continue reading went out the window. I felt so strange and part of me just really didn’t want to leave. What if I stayed just a tiny bit longer this time? Maybe when I get back to Mexico City, I should just pack up my stuff and move back to California, I thought to myself. It didn’t help that I had just gone through an emotionally traumatizing experience with someone very close to me in Mexico that had yet to be resolved, and I still had that pending situation to look forward to when I got back. But that’s a story for another day.

Despite the temptation to run back home to where everything felt familiar, to where I knew I’d be safe, to where my family whom I love so dearly are, that wasn’t a viable option. Something about that just didn’t feel right. Sure, in certain moments of weakness it feels enticing, but that’s all it is—a moment. If it were the right decision, it wouldn’t feel as wrong as it does. But what was it that was telling me that it wasn’t the right call? I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

The plane was taking off, so I put my phone on airplane mode and opened up Spotify. There are certain songs that I absolutely can’t pass up listening to during takeoff and landing. I put my headphones in, the vibration from the music combating the anxiety pulsing through me. Looking out the window, I tried to lose myself in the clouds as the plane took me up, higher and higher as the seconds ticked by.

A few hours later, the all-too familiar announcement beep rang through the cabin. The pilot’s voice informed us that we were landing soon. Cue the designated “landing” songs. With music in my ears, my gaze went back out the window. Then I realized something was happening inside me. Why was my heart beating so fast? And why was I starting to cry? More anxiety? No, not this time. This time I felt…calm. It felt like I was in love. Mexico City was getting closer and closer to me with each passing second as the distance between myself and the ground shrank. And then it hit me.

I was home.

Mexico City has become just as familiar to me. I’ve grown to become comfortable in the innate discomfort that comes with moving to a different country, which then turns into confidence in oneself. I have fantastic memories that I can call upon here; walking around Reforma at night laughing with friends; going out salsa dancing; yelling "que pedo!" out the window of my first apartment here to my neighbor as our own little inside joke; discovering the magic that is Dia de Muertos; late-night taco stand runs; dancing drunk on a boat ride in Xochimilco in great company; rescuing my beloved cat Twix off the street; taking trips outside of the city to the pyramids where I sat on top of the Pyramid of the Sun for an hour and soaked up all its energy; morning coffee with El Angel de Independencia as I watched the cars drive in circles at the roundabout; rhythmic salsa and cumbia ringing out on the streets at any given moment; los mercados that I’ve grown to love so much; trying (and mostly failing) at accurately speaking Spanish the first several months after I first moved here and how kind everyone was to me as I tried my best, and recognizing that now I’m finally fluent; all the amazing people I’ve met along the way and have become dear to me; growing thicker skin and learning that the world isn’t all sunshine and roses as I had previously (and naively) believed when I lived in the Orange County bubble. There’s so much more I could write, but that would require many more pages.

Mexico City has not only become a home to me, but it’s also been an invaluable teacher. I’ve had some of the best experiences of my life here, as well as some of the worst, heart-wrenching ones that have knocked me down hard and shook me to my core. But ultimately, I’m grateful for everything. Without these experiences, I wouldn’t have learned what I needed to learn. I wouldn’t have met who I needed to meet. I wouldn’t be where I need to be.

I’m so grateful that la Ciudad de México opened up her arms and accepted me. I’m grateful to all the amazing people who have accepted me too, and taught me everything I needed to know to thrive here. Every single place I’ve had the absolute pleasure of exploring here in Mexico, both within the city and outside of it, every single person I’ve met, and every single experience I’ve had here have all played a notable role in Mexico becoming my home.

I’ve realized that we don’t need to be bound to just one home in our lifetime. We are allowed to love many places, to feel at home in multiple places on this earth even if we can only live in one of them at a time, and I absolutely understand how confusing that can feel. There are so many places in this world that, if we venture out into them, can make us fall in love with them. And at the end of the day, a home is what it is because love is present.

So Mexico, I just want to say that I love you. Thank you so much for being my home, too. And oh, how much I love being home.

Para mi querido México. Te quiero.