Island Kid Forever

There’s a special kind of ache that comes from leaving a place you once called home. I was only ten years old when we moved away from my hometown—an island cradled by the sea and wrapped in the kind of simplicity that only childhood could magnify. Though the years have passed and I’ve long settled somewhere else, a part of me never really left.  

We still visit once a year. Just once. And yet that single trip always manages to stir something deep within me. As soon as we step off the boat or arrive on that familiar patch of earth, it’s like time slows down. The air feels lighter. The rhythm of life changes.  

There, I don’t hear traffic or hurried footsteps. Instead, I hear the sea—slapping gently against the stones, a sound both soothing and alive. I hear the leaves of old trees swaying in the breeze, whispering memories I didn’t even know I still carried. I hear laughter—genuine, unbothered, and so warm that it seeps into your chest like sunshine.  

It’s in those moments that I remember what it felt like to be a child again. To run barefoot, to laugh without restraint, to live without deadlines or distractions. And even though I’m just visiting, it always feels like I’ve returned to something sacred.  

Funny story—when I was younger, after we’d return from the island, I wouldn’t unpack my bag for days. Not because I was lazy, but because I was secretly hoping we’d go back again before school started. We usually stayed on the island for the entire school break, then returned home a week or two before classes resumed. So I’d cling to that slim hope that maybe, just maybe, we weren’t really done with our island summer. Maybe there was still time to go back one more time. My packed bag was my little way of not letting go just yet.  

Leaving again never gets easier. The boat ride or drive back feels a little heavier each time. I return to the life I’ve built, to the routine and responsibilities I’ve grown used to—but there’s always a quiet longing. I miss the island the moment I leave it.  

Because that place… it holds a part of me I don’t find anywhere else. Even if just for a while, being there is like hitting pause on the noise of life. It’s an escape. A breath of air I didn’t know I was holding out for.  

It’s more than just a hometown—it’s a feeling I keep chasing, even after I’ve left. 

au revoir. 🙂