Growing up in a small Midwestern town like Monmouth in the 70s and 80s, I couldn’t wait to get to the next step of my life. Leave! Start the adventure! My goal was to go to college and point myself toward something bigger. Somewhere louder. Somewhere with more options, more motion, more future.
And I did that. I went to undergrad, I went up to Milwaukee for grad school, down to New Orleans for another graduate degree, out to Virginia, up to Montreal, back to Virginia.
I built a life. Full of ups and downs like anyone else’s. My parents, my brother, and a best friend I have been able to keep since 5th grade, always just a phone call away for advice, support, and love.
I would come back for holidays until my parents moved to Florida when Dad retired. And then I didn’t. I hadn’t seen this town in 11 years.
But when my favorite, irreplaceable human being, my Dad, died unexpectedly and my high school English teacher called me right after to ask if I’d consider a job in my hometown, I felt the pull. I needed to feel safe, comforted, known, cared for, did I mention safe? Nothing unravels you more than heartfelt, soul-crushing loss. And so I came home.
To the place where I had walked to school. Where I played outside in my neighborhood until my Mom called me home. Where summers felt endless and winters made so many of my memories.
Where Dad filled the van with my fellow junior high teammates and drove us all to Pizza Hut.
Where Friday night high school football games and riding up and down Main Street were the only things to do, but every single time was full of possibility.
Growing up here in the 70s and 80s meant knowing your neighbors and knowing that they knew you too. It meant being seen, whether you wanted to be or not. It meant comfort and living side by side.
When I moved away, I thought comfort was something you outgrew.
Turns out, it’s something you come back to.
There’s a strange and beautiful feeling that comes from walking into a grocery store and hearing your name. From someone smiling and saying, “I remember you.” From people recognizing you as you are now, but knew who you were then. They tell stories about your parents. They know the house you grew up in, they know who lives there now.
They remember stories you’d forgotten. And somehow, instead of feeling melancholy for all that has gone by, it makes you feel rooted.
Coming back at this age isn’t about reliving the past.
It’s about standing in this place now, seeing it clearly, and realizing it still has something to give me as much as I have the need to give back to it.
I love the familiarity. I love knowing which roads to take without thinking. I love the quiet confidence of a place that doesn’t need to impress anyone. And that’s comforting. Especially now. We’re living in a time of so much change; technology, culture, expectations, pace. Everything is faster, louder, and more disposable. Even people sometimes feel temporary. But here, things last. People stay. They show up. They remember.
My new job is at the Buchanan Center for the Arts in Monmouth. My high school English teacher is my board president and now I get to give back to this place that shaped me. And that matters more than I expected it to. There’s something deeply grounding about using what I’ve learned on my adventures to serve the people that first taught me who I could be. It feels like closing a circle.
I’ve reconnected with old friends, all familiar in a way that only shared history can create. And I’ve made new friends too, because small towns have a way of folding you in if you let them. The conversations are real here. The silences aren’t awkward. People still wave when you drive past each other.
And at 55, that feels like a gift. Growing old where you grew up isn’t about going backward.
It’s about finally understanding how to best move forward. It’s realizing that comfort isn’t weakness. That familiarity isn’t stagnation. It isn’t sad. It’s energizing.
Because this is the most meaningful place for me to stand in. The place I started from.
When I was young, I left to become myself. I came back because I finally know who that is.
Ann Tenold is executive director of Buchanan Center for the Arts in Monmouth.
The views expressed are not necessarily those of Tri States Public Radio or its license-holder, Western Illinois University.
Diverse viewpoints are welcomed and encouraged.