Latest / Your People: Finding Community, Friendship & Belonging / Why Your Rural Roots Feel Like a Foreign Language in the City | Your People
Transcript
- I used to think I had left my hometown behind, but yesterday I stood in a subway station and realized I was still speaking a language no one else could understand. The silence wasn't empty; it was heavy with everything I hadn't said. Let’s linger there for a second. That feeling of standing in a crowd and feeling completely alone is something I’ve carried for years. It’s not just loneliness. It’s disorientation. When you grow up somewhere small, where everyone knows your name, your dog, and exactly what kind of pie your grandmother makes on Sundays, the world feels predictable. There is a rhythm to life that you can feel in your bones. You know when the rain is coming because the birds stop singing. You know who to call when the power goes out. But then you move to the city. And suddenly, that map you were born with doesn’t match the streets you’re walking on. The city has its own rhythms, but they are invisible. They are hidden in the way people rush past each other without making eye contact. They are in the noise that never stops. And you are left trying to navigate a place that refuses to tell you its secrets. You start to feel like an imposter in your own life. Like you’re wearing a costume that doesn’t quite fit. The question isn’t whether you belong here. The question is how do you carry the parts of you that don’t fit into this new shape? That’s the quiet part out loud. We talk about moving cities as if it’s just a change of address. We post pictures of our new apartments. We celebrate the coffee shops and the museums. But we rarely talk about the grief. The grief for the slow mornings. The grief for the open sky. In the rural places I grew up, the sky wasn’t just above you; it was a presence. It dictated your mood. A storm felt like a conversation with the earth. Here, the sky is a thin strip between buildings. It feels distant. Unreachable. And I miss it. Not because the city is bad. It’s vibrant. It’s full of art and ideas and strangers who might become friends. But I miss the weightlessness of knowing exactly where I stand. In the city, you have to define yourself constantly. Who are you? What do you do? Where did you come from? These questions hang in the air like dust motes in sunlight. You are always performing. Always curating. And sometimes, late at night, when the traffic outside fades to a hum, you wonder if you’ve lost the ability to just be. Just exist without explanation. Without context. Where did you feel that in your body? For me, it’s in the shoulders. They rise up toward my ears every time I walk into a room full of people who don’t know me. It’s a defensive posture. A way of bracing for impact. I’m waiting for someone to ask me where I’m from, expecting disappointment. Expecting them to look at me with pity or confusion. Because how do you explain a life spent watching seasons turn slowly? How do you describe the comfort of a porch swing in July? These things don’t translate well into urban shorthand. Urban shorthand is efficient. It’s direct. It’s about what you need right now. My background is about patience. About waiting for things to ripen. About understanding that some things take time. This clash isn’t just cultural. It’s biological. My nervous system is calibrated for a different frequency. And when I tune into the city’s high-speed channel, static fills the air. I feel jittery. Distracted. Like I’m missing the point. But here’s the thing about static. It’s not useless. It’s information. It’s telling me that I am different. That I am carrying a history that hasn’t been acknowledged yet. We are taught that assimilation is the goal. That to succeed in the city, we must shed our old selves like snakeskin. We must adopt the accent. The pace. The values. We buy the right clothes. We learn the slang. We pretend we love the noise. But this shedding is violent. It cuts off pieces of our soul. I remember trying so hard to fit in during my first year here. I stopped talking about my family. I hid my love for gardening. I pretended I didn’t miss the smell of wet dirt after a summer storm. I thought if I erased enough of myself, I would finally be accepted. But acceptance based on erasure is hollow. It’s a transaction. I gave them my history. They gave me a seat at the table. But the chair was uncomfortable. And I was hungry. Real belonging doesn’t require you to leave your roots behind. It requires you to plant them here. To let them grow in this concrete soil. It’s harder. The roots hit rocks. They twist and turn. But they hold. And when they hold, they create shade for others. So how do we build bridges? How do we make space for the rural self in the urban present? It starts with small acts of recognition. I started sharing stories about my hometown with my colleagues. Not as bragging rights. Not as nostalgia trips. But as truth. I told them about the time we lost power for three days and neighbors cooked together on grills. I described the silence of a snow-covered field. At first, they looked confused. Then curious. Then connected. One colleague mentioned her grandfather’s farm. Another shared a memory of a cabin trip. We found common ground in the longing for nature. In the desire for simplicity. These moments are tiny. But they are powerful. They remind us that beneath the differences, we share the same human needs. We all want to be seen. We all want to belong. By sharing my rural roots, I didn’t lose my urban identity. I expanded it. I became more complex. More interesting. More real. And so did they. Community happens in these unplanned moments. In the hallway chats. In the shared vulnerability. When we allow ourselves to be messy. To be contradictory. To be both rural and urban. Both slow and fast. Both rooted and drifting. There is a gift in having two worlds inside you. It gives you perspective. It allows you to see the absurdity of city life with a gentle humor. It lets you appreciate the slowness of rural life without romanticizing its hardships. You become a translator. Between the past and the present. Between the country and the city. Between the self and the community. This translation work is exhausting. But it is also sacred. It connects us. It reminds us that we are not alone in our disorientation. That many of us are navigating this gap. Many of us are learning to speak both languages. To code-switch not out of shame, but out of love. Out of a desire to include everyone at the table. So if you feel this tension today, if you feel the pull of your roots against the push of your drift, please know it is valid. It is not a flaw. It is a feature. It is proof that you have lived deeply. That you have loved places. That you have held onto memories even when they were inconvenient. Hold onto them. Share them. Let them inform your new home. Don’t let them define your limits. Let them expand your heart. This show exists to create that space. A space where your roots are honored. Where your drift is understood. Where you don’t have to choose between who you were and who you are becoming. We are building a community of translators. Of bridge-builders. Of people who know that home is not just a place. It’s a practice. It’s a verb. It’s the act of showing up imperfectly. Of listening to understand. Of connecting across differences. If you’ve ever felt out of place in your own life, if you’ve ever struggled to reconcile your past with your present, you are welcome here. You are seen. You are valued. Not despite your complexity, but because of it. Thank you for being part of this growing circle. Thank you for trusting me with your stories. Thank you for letting me witness your journey. Together, we are creating a map that fits us all. A map that acknowledges the detours. The wrong turns. The beautiful surprises. A map that says you belong exactly where you are. Even if that place is a mix of two worlds. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s unclear. It is yours. And it is enough. Take care of yourself, friend. Keep bridging those gaps. I’ll see you next time. With love, Katharine.