It is a weird feeling to come back to a place that used to be home. A part of me still feels at home here, but so much brings me back to the reality that I am not anymore… Sometimes, I feel like an old man standing in the middle of town, holding an old photograph, comparing the past and the present, lost in memories. Familiar faces walk past, not remembering me as one of them.

Everywhere I go, there are pieces of my life as a young mom. On that street I walked so often with babies in sling, at the pool I visited weekly with wiggly toddlers, on that climbing wall where I pushed little bums up so many times.

But I remember where to find the chickpeas at the grocery store, where to turn to avoid all the stop signs and super long red lights, who to go see early on at the market to secure some eggs, where to find arnica flowers and wild blueberry patches…

Everything feels so familiar and so foreign at the same time. Home but not home. It’s bittersweet...