When I was in my early twenties, the lure of the great, big, bad world, which I hadn’t really seen, was becoming too magnetic, pulling me away from the safe, comfort of my hometown.

I needed to take flight, to see what was out there with my own eyes. I was convinced that a change of venue would mean a change of life. I thought I could shake off the cobwebs and dust of my staid life (which, realistically, wasn’t all that staid), and become bigger and better if only I got out of town. It was my hometown that was stifling, not me.

A wise, older friend of mine told me that a change of venue was just that, a change of venue. No matter where you go, there you are. He said that, at best, a new city would be a distraction for a little while, but nothing would be solved merely by leaving. In fact, it could compound the problem since I wouldn’t have the support network that I had at home.

I didn’t heed to his advice and went traipsing around the continent anyway. He was right, of course. All leaving accomplished was delaying the inevitable, so that now, as a fully-grown adult with fifteen years and thousands of miles separating me from my hometown, I’m still trying to sort out the same crap that I ignored then.

I don’t regret not taking his advice. If I had, I might still be in my hometown wishing I had gotten out, but I do wish I had listened to the part where he told me that what’s broken cannot be fixed by another dot on the map; I have to fix it myself. Not all who wander are lost, but some of us are.