Latest / Your People: Finding Community, Friendship & Belonging / From Dirt Roads to Subway Lines: Finding Home in Both Worlds | Your People
Transcript
- I still catch myself checking the rearview mirror for a tractor that isn’t there, my hands gripping an imaginary steering wheel while the city blurs past my window. It’s a small, silly habit, but it tells you everything about how deeply two different worlds can live inside one person. Let’s linger there for a second. That image of the rearview mirror. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how our bodies keep maps of places we haven’t lived for years. When I was growing up in rural Pennsylvania, space wasn’t just a concept; it was a physical sensation. The air felt different. Heavier, maybe? Or lighter, because there was nothing blocking the wind. We didn’t have neighbors who waved from porches three houses down. We had neighbors who knew your name because they’d watched you grow up on the same stretch of asphalt since you were in diapers. Now, I live in a city where the sidewalk is six inches wide and the noise never truly stops. I walk past people every day who are close enough to touch but feel like they’re on another planet. And here is the quiet part out loud: I often feel like a ghost in both places. In the country, I’m too urban now, too distracted by screens and schedules. In the city, I’m too slow, too intentional, too aware of the soil beneath the concrete. Where did you feel that in your body? Maybe it’s a tightness in your chest when you drive back home, or a sudden exhaustion when you return to the apartment after visiting family. It’s not just homesickness. It’s a kind of cultural whiplash. We’re told that adulthood is a linear journey. You leave your roots to plant new ones elsewhere. But for so many of us, especially those of us who moved from rural areas to urban centers for work or education, that narrative feels incomplete. It implies a clean break, a shedding of skin. But you don’t shed your history. You carry it. And sometimes, that weight feels heavy. I remember moving to this city for my first real job out of college. I packed my life into two suitcases and a sedan that smelled like old coffee and pine needles. I thought I was leaving behind a version of myself that was small, predictable, and perhaps a little stuck. I wanted to be big. I wanted to be seen. But what I didn’t account for was the silence. Not the peaceful silence of the fields, but the lonely silence of a studio apartment where no one knows if you’re okay unless you tell them. In my hometown, if I hadn’t shown up to church or the grocery store, people would show up at my door with casseroles and concern. Here, privacy is the norm. Independence is celebrated. But sometimes, independence feels a lot like isolation. This gap between rural roots and urban drift isn’t just about geography. It’s about rhythm. Rural life often operates on seasons, on weather, on the harvest. Urban life operates on quarters, on traffic lights, on the next deadline. When you shift from one tempo to another, your internal clock doesn’t always sync up. You might find yourself waiting for a signal that never comes, or rushing through moments that want to be savored. One of the hardest things I’ve had to navigate is the language of belonging. In my childhood town, community was a verb. It happened in the driveway, at the gas station, over fences. It was messy and immediate. You helped someone change a tire, and you expected help when your car broke down. There was an implicit contract of mutual aid. In the city, that contract is broken. You pay for convenience. You hire people to move your furniture, to walk your dog, to cook your meals. And there’s nothing wrong with that! Efficiency has its place. But I miss the friction. I miss the unexpected conversations that lead to deep connections. I miss the sense that I am responsible for my neighbor’s well-being, not just my own safety. It’s easy to romanticize the past, to paint the rural experience as some pastoral paradise. It wasn’t. It was hard. It was isolated in its own way. Poverty looked different, but it was there. Grief was public, but it was also suffocating. Everyone’s business was everyone’s business. There was no anonymity. If you made a mistake, it followed you. If you struggled, there was nowhere to hide. So when I talk about bridging this gap, I’m not saying one way is better. I’m saying that both ways hold truth. The challenge is integrating them. How do you bring the intimacy of the small town into the anonymity of the metropolis? How do you create pockets of that village mentality in a world designed for strangers? As someone who used to plan neighborhoods, I have a strange obsession with space. I used to think I could design community. I drew lines on maps, created green spaces, planned pedestrian pathways. I thought if I built the right infrastructure, people would connect. I was young, and I was wrong. Community doesn’t happen in the blueprints. It happens in the unplanned moments. The hallway chat. The shared grief. The random act of kindness. Now, I try to create those moments intentionally. It’s harder than drawing a line. It requires vulnerability. It requires showing up imperfectly. In my city, I’ve started hosting dinners. Not fancy dinners. Just food on a table. I invite people from different backgrounds, different ages, different walks of life. Some are like me, transplants carrying the dust of their hometowns in their pockets. Some are lifelong residents who know every crack in the pavement. When we sit together, the differences become bridges rather than barriers. The rural listener shares stories of storms and silence. The urban native talks about subway delays and skyscrapers. We realize that beneath the surface, the fears are the same. The desire to be known is the same. The need for safety is the same. This is where the magic happens. Not in erasing our differences, but in honoring them as part of a larger tapestry. Let’s linger there for a second. Think about your own space. What does your home say about you? Is it a fortress against the world, or an open door? You don’t need a big house to build community. You need a willingness to be seen. You need to offer the same grace to others that you wish someone had offered to you when you were navigating that transition from one world to another. There is a unique strength in having feet in both worlds. Those of us who bridge rural roots and urban drift often develop a kind of dual vision. We see the beauty in the wild and the order in the structured. We understand the value of patience and the necessity of pace. We can translate between these cultures, helping each side understand the other. I’ve found that my rural upbringing gave me a resilience that serves me well in the city. I know how to wait. I know how to endure. I know that not everything needs to be solved immediately. Sometimes, you just have to sit with the problem until it reveals its shape. That patience is rare in a culture obsessed with instant gratification. Conversely, the city has taught me adaptability. It has pushed me out of my comfort zone, forced me to engage with diversity, to listen to voices I might have ignored before. It has expanded my definition of normal. There is no single right way to live. There are only ways that work for you, and ways that don’t. This integration is not a destination. It’s a practice. Some days, I feel more rural. I crave the quiet, the land, the simplicity. Other days, I thrive on the energy, the stimulation, the endless possibilities. Neither state is permanent. And that’s okay. We are not meant to be fixed. We are meant to be fluid, moving between the landscapes of our lives, collecting wisdom from each. That’s the quiet part out loud. We are all hybrids. We all carry multiple truths. And there is power in that multiplicity. It allows us to be more compassionate, more understanding, more whole. So, how do we build this village when we’re far from our origins? It starts with curiosity. Instead of judging the differences, lean into them. Ask questions. Listen deeply. Share your own story without apology. When I talk to friends who grew up in cities, I ask them about the sounds of their streets, the smells of their blocks. When I talk to friends who stayed in rural areas, I ask them about the changes they’ve witnessed, the losses they’ve mourned. We create connection through shared vulnerability. It’s not about agreeing on everything. It’s about witnessing each other. It’s about saying, ‘I see you. I hear you. You belong here.’ This applies to your friendships, your workplace, your online communities. Look for the people who are also bridging gaps. The immigrants. The artists. The caregivers. The dreamers. They often understand the feeling of being in-between. They know the loneliness of displacement. And they know the joy of finding home in unexpected places. Don’t underestimate the power of small rituals. A weekly coffee. A monthly book club. A holiday gathering that includes everyone, regardless of background. These structures provide the container for connection. But you fill that container with your presence. With your attention. With your heart. Where did you feel that in your body? That sense of potential? Of possibility? Hold onto it. It’s a reminder that you are capable of creating the belonging you seek. You don’t have to wait for permission. You don’t have to wait for the perfect moment. Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can. Thank you for letting me into your day. Thank you for listening, for reflecting, for being exactly who you are. I’ll see you in the next one. Until then, be gentle with yourself, and remember: you are already home, wherever you are. Bye for now.