I’ll likely never live in my hometown again

With “Sparks” by Coldplay droning through my AirPods, I take a deep breath and try to steady my nerves as the plane takes off. Reality has finally hit me: as the hazy map of Winnipeg grows smaller beneath the plane’s wings, I bid farewell to the place that has been my home for most of the last 13 years, for what’s perhaps the very last time.

Perhaps it’s the dulcet tones of Chris Martin masking the Air Canada in-flight safety video, but tears sting my eyes as I watch the city I grew up in dissolve into a speck amongst the prairies. Though I’ve long known this departure was coming, I find myself startlingly unprepared.

I began to write this piece a week or two ago— under the covers of my childhood bed, probably also listening to “Sparks” by Coldplay (can you tell I have a go-to cry song)—but I couldn’t quite verbalize my feelings. So, as my 7 a.m. flight began to taxi down the runway, I opened my laptop and started a document titled “I’ll likely never live in my hometown again.”

Clearly, I have a flair for the dramatics.

***

At seven years old, my mom sat me down and told me we would be leaving our beloved Toronto home and neighbourhood and moving to Winnipeg. While the stress of leaving behind the only life and community I had ever known was taxing on my seven-year-old brain, I was also filled with a bubbling excitement of what was to come.

As I had never been, and all of my extended family lives in Ontario, I relied entirely on my parents’ descriptions of Winnipeg. They spoke highly of the winter activities I’d be able to try, the big backyard we would now have and the quaint elementary school I’d attend, where—my dad would excitedly exclaim—“they let the kids be crossing guards!” Curious, I would often look up photos of Winnipeg on the family desktop computer, the results of which were overwhelmingly white and snowy—a blank slate for the life my family could create.

I began to fall in love with the idea of a city I had never met.

We moved in August of 2011. At the critical ages of seven and five, my sister and I began at a new school, my mom started her new job—the reason for the move—and my dad began the essential process of setting up our new home.

Winnipeg turned out to be a wonderful place to grow up—and, before you make any “middle of nowhere” jokes, I ask you to hear me out. The flat, sprawling prairies were perfect for learning how to ride a bike. The frigid winters were shocking, at first, but gifted me countless white Christmases—and white Halloweens, and white Easters.

Over time, my idea of Winnipeg began to grow from the chilly unknown I’d seen on Google Images into a place I fondly called home.

Being away at university for months at a time has further solidified this feeling. Like in college movies I grew up watching, Winnipeg has come to feel like my “hometown”— a place I return to during winter and summer breaks, filling the quiet of my parents’ empty nest.

Though my time in the city has become more infrequent over the past few years, my affection for Winnipeg has never faltered.

***

However, it came as no surprise when, after 13 years, my mom sat me down to let me know that she and my dad would be moving back to Toronto. Though I found myself back in the same position as I was at seven, I was far more involved in discussions of the future and my mom’s job hunt this time round.

Though I was proud and excited for my parents to return to Toronto—a city that had always remained a big part of our family story—I couldn’t ignore the pangs of finality. This wasn’t just about my parents leaving Winnipeg. It was about me leaving too.

The realization that I’ll likely never live here again feels surreal. Winnipeg isn’t just a city where I grew up—it’s a city that grew with me. It shaped me, molded me, and gave me the tools to navigate life far beyond its borders. It’s where I experienced my first -40° Celsius winter, learned how to skate, and sat through endless summer thunderstorms that lit up the prairie sky. It’s where I got my first part-time job, graduated high school, learned to drive (albeit quite late in life), and made friendships that have carried me through some of life’s hardest seasons.

The weight of this goodbye hit hardest the night I packed up my bedroom. I had been putting it off for the whole winter break, knowing it would be more than just a chore. As I sifted through my desk drawers and closet shelves, I found artifacts of my childhood and teenage years tucked away in forgotten corners: crumpled school projects, glittery Rainbow Loom bracelets, and dozens of half-filled journals with pages of messy handwriting that captured the drama of Grade five crushes and cafeteria politics.

Even my bookshelf held surprises. Books I had long outgrown but couldn’t bear to part with suddenly became portals to simpler times. I held each one for a moment longer than necessary, flipping through the pages, ing how they felt like entire worlds back then.

Now, as I look down at the shrunken skyline from the plane, I wonder how much of Winnipeg I’ll carry with me. My Spotify has now shifted to “The Scientist” (somehow still depressing Coldplay), and I can’t help but laugh at the irony. I know this isn’t really goodbye. Winnipeg will always be there—a place to visit, a chapter to revisit, and a part of who I am.

I’ll be back—maybe not as a resident, but as someone who will always belong, in some way, to Winnipeg.

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