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I’ve spent years wishing for the past.

When I left for university, I had to leave my childhood friends and home behind. I spent the next two years bouncing between my old home, and the new home I had created for myself up north. In order to preserve my memories, I spent nearly all my free time outside of homework writing up snippets of nonfiction.

Each time I was able to come home, I connected with my friends I grew up with, visited my old church, and had my childhood house to come home to.

Then that changed. My first quarter of my second year off at university I went through hell, and I didn’t fit in my home anymore. Worse yet, I found out from my family that they were planning on moving out of the home I’d spent ten years in. I decided to try living on my own up north. How bad could it be?

It was bad. I was terribly lonely, and my depression was pretty severe. I felt empty and hollow and drained. I had a church I was going to, but it was small and didn’t feel like home. I had a job, and everyone there called me cheerful, but I was sick and dying inside. I had a cute house out in the country that was all my own, but it was empty and lifeless, and the stillness was terrible.

I eventually gave up and moved back home, helped my family move, got another job, and settled into my new life. I left behind an old friend group–a choice that was very wise, because of how badly they dragged me down. I found a new church where I feel at home, and I have become a part of a very large young adult group there.

For once, I do not want to go back to where I have been–not to any of those seasons that have come before. I want to be at where I am now. I know there are good things ahead.

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