I’ve lived in three places my entire life. Boston, the greater DC area, and Florida. Maybe three and a half if you count the year I had to go to New York for work multiple times per month. And I can find things to love about all of them.
But for as many gripes I have about its entomic wildlife, my specific neighborhood and the interior design epidemic here that treats a grass wall and a neon sign as the pinnacle of decor, I love it here.
Florida, and St Pete specifically, feel like home.
As a creative and borderline delusional woman, I think I’m capable of romanticizing just about anything (except for when I lived in the apartment complex I nicknamed Lil Baghdad based on the sheer amount of burkas I saw on a daily basis).
I found things to love when I first moved out of my parents’ house and into a townhome in the suburbs of Virginia with 3 other girls. As much as I hated about the DC area, I never got tired of rides over the bridge with views of the monuments that made you feel like you were in a Netflix documentary about lobbying. Even in the building that felt more like Mecca than America, I loved our balcony and our proximity to HomeGoods and TJ Maxx.
But something about Florida feels different in a way I struggle to articulate.
I don’t feel like I’m ever trying to convince myself to love it; I just do.
I don’t know if it’s about Florida as a whole or Tampa Bay specifically, but every time I have to leave for work, family, or leisure I’m overwhelmed with a sense of peace as soon as my return flight begins descending. I’ve never experienced anything like it.
But recently I’ve started wondering if the attachment I felt to where I live was evidence of something wrong with me.
Florida is always growing, but St Pete isn’t New York, or Chicago, or Miami. And I kind of doubt it ever will be. I don’t know that it should be.
It’s a tiny city whose economy and social ecosystem rely almost entirely on beach access and one street of bars, restaurants and fitness studios.
And don’t get me wrong; I love Central Ave and I love the ocean. But sometimes I felt like I should want more out of life than what St Pete had to offer.
It seemed like after four years of living here, I should be bored of it by now.
It seemed like I was missing that gene that drove people to seek the most out of life.
I wondered if I should have lost awe and contentment in my routines; if I should be numb to the scenery of my daily life, if the establishments I frequented should feel stale and repetitive, if I should feel claustrophobic running into someone I knew almost every time I went out on a weekend.
In summary, I was wondering if I should feel like I’d outgrown this place and it was time to move on.
And because I didn’t feel that way, I questioned if I was somehow deficient.
Occasionally I’ve found myself browsing the Fort Lauderdale Zillow, pondering what my life might look like if I forced myself to start over again.
But the more I thought about it, the more confident I became in my circumstances and my satisfaction with them.
I remember talking to a friend that was considering moving to Austin because she felt like she’d lived in St. Pete for “too long.” I was supportive and heard her out, but I remember contemplating whether we’d completely overblown the value of novelty, and pursued it out of habit as opposed to an actual positive impact.
I moved from Boston to Virginia for work and from Virginia to Florida for my sanity. But I actually had multiple reasons for wanting to leave. I’m sure I could have stayed there and made the best of it, but I never felt truly connected to it. The friend in question loved St Pete. And as I asked her more questions about her rationale, she seemed to realize it herself.
For a long time, it seems like we’ve been told that we should want more than we have even if what we have is exactly what we want.
Or maybe it’s not even that we’re supposed to want “more” but something other than what we have.
We were made to believe there was something primitive and uncultured about spending your entire life in one place unless it was a large coastal metropolis; that we should be constantly striving for the next best thing; that we should have an insatiable appetite for success and “experiences.”
I think it’s at least partially driven by a drastic decline in American quality of life.
What seemed possible 30 years ago working an average job in a small town seems unfathomable today, so it’s no wonder people feel the need to be on the constant lookout for new opportunities, and moving towards where they seem most concentrated and abundant.
But while some of it may be a symptom of our economic realities, I don’t think that’s anything close to the full picture.
I think it’s the same phenomenon that drives people to avoid commitment, opting instead for infinite swiping, passing up on potential partners because they’re a little shorter than you’d prefer or have a cringe-inducing taste in music, convinced that someone better is always around the corner.
I think it’s the same mindset that drives naturally pretty women to spend absurd amounts of money on completely unnecessary cosmetic “enhancements,” inventing new insecurities and “problems” to solve based on what’s trending on Instagram.
It’s the same social media-induced psychosis that convinces us that annual weeks-long escapades in Europe are the status quo, or like we’re somehow inadequate if we can’t afford them.
It seems that on some level, we’re expected to be on a constant look out for the next best thing, and measuring our lives and the lives we “should” want with standards that were never really our own, but internalized.
If you feel a genuine longing for something different than what you have, I think you should work for what you want. But I also think we’ve developed a widespread and bizarre aversion to being…normal.
It’s actually fine — and good — to cherish a life that may seem completely ordinary from the outside looking in.
And the more I think about it, I’m convinced it may be a sign of maturity and a well-designed life to not constantly need a change of scenery or new thrill to feel fulfilled.
I think the further our culture strays from God, the more we’ll go looking in the wrong places for a sense of purpose or self actualization.
The more I’ve grown in my walk with God, the more appreciation I’ve found for things I’d completely take for granted earlier in my life.
I’ve found gratitude and meaning in the little things, the big things, and everything in between, and St. Pete is just one of them.
I don’t know that I’ve ever felt more joy, serenity, or belonging than I have where I am. And that doesn’t mean that there isn’t more to be explored, or that there’s nowhere else I could ever call home.
But I think to be truly thankful for what you’ve been given is to be present in it, to cherish your blessings as if you’re tending a garden as opposed to ravaging your way through perishable goods, and to let inward change transform the way you see the outside world instead of constantly changing your surroundings and hoping they’ll transform you.
what do you think?