On returning to San Francisco, my early 20s, and remembering the times of our lives.
Last week, I went to the Bay Area for the first time in a year and a half. You might know, but this is the place I grew up.
As my plane descended over the San Francisco Bay, I grew excited. I had been anticipating this trip for a long time, and I had finally arrived.
When my plane landed, I got my suitcase from baggage claim, walked outside and waved at my friend, Ryan, who was there to pick me up.
As we drove further away from the airport, I noticed many beautiful things: the colorful houses that lined broad sidewalks, the Salesforce Tower poking into the sky, and beautiful detailing on every building. I watched people board trains, taxis, and bicycles. I noticed the Cyprus trees and the Golden Gate Bridge peering out from beneath Karl the Fog.
Had I stopped to really, truly see these things before?
Why did everything seem so strangely unfamiliar?
Slowly, a realization began to set in. I am a very different person today than I was the last time I was here.
As we continued our drive, I felt old memories begin to take shape. I saw bars and restaurants I went to with friends - but was too drunk to remember visiting. We passed neighborhoods I had laughed, danced, and cried my way through at 2 am – as if tomorrow were a distant, far-away maybe.
Back in those days, as much as I tried to avoid it, morning always came. The sun inevitably gave rise to feelings of anguish and regret, and I’d drive from San Francisco with an ache in my heart that would last for days, just until I was ready to do it all again.
I found it difficult to remember how inebriated I had been during those years. I felt shame for the way I had behaved and the things I had done. Yet at the same time, I was proud of the young woman I was then; for the memories those years gave me.
As a young-twenty-something, I worked hard and played hard. I made, and kept, amazing friends and I was filled with happiness and excitement just at being alive.
Thinking back, I suddenly felt grief for my old life, not because I wanted it back, but because I knew I would never choose to go back.
Over the last few years, I’ve started to create a new relationship with myself, my friends, and the places I spend my time. Since I’ve stopped drinking alcohol, I look for excitement in new spaces. I don’t rely on the thrill of a pill, or the buzz of a drink, or people who aren’t good for me. Instead, I find immense pleasure in the small things: the rise and fall of my breath, the hydrangeas on the street corner, the book in my hand, or a new person sitting across the table from me.
Spending time in San Francisco is different now. I don’t leave the city with an ache in my heart that lasts for days, I leave with deep insights and memories that feel good to reflect on.
I’m curious, when was the last time you visited a place you used to call home? What did you remember about it? Are you the same person now as you were then? What’s changed? Hit ‘reply’ and tell me.
Love and light,
Anna Vatuone
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