Recently I’ve been thinking of going back to my hometown. The day I left, I promised never to go back again, no matter what happened. I hate that place. Well…I did hate it while growing up. I always felt under the spotlight and who I was, was never good enough. I was always too much or too less. Too quiet. Too weird. Too skinny. Too socially awkward. Too much of a loner.
So when I finally moved out, I thought I’ll finally be somewhere where nobody knows me and be who I really am. Too bad at that point I had no idea who I was. I’m still trying to figure myself out after years of being ‘who I was supposed to be’. New countries, new cities help a little but when things are about you, it’s you who need to figure things out. Not new cities.
I started teaching in a preschool in my hometown and I got my TEFL diploma there too, certified by an American language institute. And though I moved to London afterwards to work and continue my education, teaching English as a foreign language in an English speaking country is like looking for water in Antarctica; one way or the other you’ll get it. So now I’m in Italy trying to figure out my future and my hometown is starting to look really good right now. There, I’d be able to find a job, continue studying and perhaps enjoy life a little bit more than I am now.
But then there is this sense of failure holding me back, like going back home is marking me as ‘one who didn’t make it’. Didn’t make it in London. In Italy. There are people I know back home begging for a chance to get out and I feel I should work harder on this opportunity I got to finally make it out of there. I’m almost thirty, I should have a life by now. Should have a place in the world that I can call home apart from the place I grew up in.
At the same time, I don’t want my stubbornness and determination not to go back home to hinder my chances of doing better, career wise and life wise.
Home should be a happy place, wherever I decided it to be.