• I lived in Salem, Oregon growing up and thought it was so boring.
• After leaving for college and coming back to visit my parents, I realized it wasn't so uncool.
• Moving back to Oregon now feels impossible.

When I was 16 years old, I was convinced that the most boring place on Earth was Salem, Oregon.

As a grunge-punk teen growing up in the 90s, I thought Salem was everything that Seattle and Portland were not. It wasn't cool, edgy or exciting. It was a city of bureaucrats, where you could find dozens of spots to grab coffee or a sandwich, but not much in the way of night life. And anyway, underage fun was strictly forbidden. Forget sneaking into a bar; we couldn't even get into an R-rated movie. My friends and I spent our Friday nights at Denny's, drinking endless cups of coffee and dreaming about moving somewhere cool.

I had lived in Salem all my life, and although I'd traveled with my family to California, Hawaii and even Europe, I longed to experience something new. In Salem, I felt like a round peg in an extremely square hole.

College, I thought, was my chance to find a place where I fit in. I applied to several out-of-state schools and didn't look back once graduation rolled around.

My new life was about to begin.

I realized maybe it wasn't that uncool

Once it began, though, I had a rude awakening. I was all alone on the other side of the country — thousands of miles away from everything familiar. What had seemed thrilling was often just isolating, lonely, and scary.

As each semester passed by, I felt myself drifting further and further away from my family and friends. Many of them had left Salem, like me, but they were still close by, in Portland, Seattle, or Eugene. But as many people do, I met my husband in college, and we ended up settling in his hometown in upstate New York.

Thanks to the 2000s housing bubble, we were able to buy our first home when we were still in our 20s. A few years later, we had a child. We were putting down roots, but I still felt out of place. I struggled to make friends in our small town, feeling at times like the people I met just didn't "get" me. And in the years before remote work, my professional options were limited.

Each time I visited my parents, I couldn't help but notice how the city that had seemed so deeply uncool actually had a lot to offer. The coffee shops and restaurants that I had been so bored of now felt pleasant and familiar. My old friends welcomed me back with open arms. It felt so comfortable to slip back into the laid-back, casually funky atmosphere of the Pacific Northwest. Had I become a square peg after all? Or had Salem gotten just a little bit less square? Either way, it began to feel more and more like this was the place where I fit in after all.

Moving back is impossible now

As my parents have grown older, my longing for the Pacific Northwest has grown more acute, and more personal. I've longed to be closer to them during their retirement years, to spend time that is deeper and richer than short holiday visits.

But moving back to Oregon feels impossible. The skyrocketing housing prices on the West Coast have me sick with sticker shock. The average price of a house in Salem is nearly twice what my home is worth. The math just isn't mathing. Not to mention the fact that we are raising a child here, who loves her school, her friends, and the small town we call home — a place where she does fit in.

While I've tried to visit Oregon as often as possible, it doesn't always feel like enough. Once, when I brought my daughter to visit my mom and dad, she said, "Mama, I love it here in Oregon. I wish we could live here. But Dada and Grandma and Poppa are in New York. What are we going to do?"

I had no answer to give her. I've made my home in New York, but Oregon will always feel like home to me. Now, as my parents need even more care and support, I sometimes wish I had never left.

Emily F. Popek is a communications professional and writer living in upstate New York. She writes about the culture of parenting and education at thinkofthechildren.substack.com.