In Chicago

I’d always despised my background. It wasn’t that life wasn’t peaceful. It was. The trouble was that along with peace came a sense of incurable boredom.

Growing up in rural Illinois, I’d always envied the “city folk”. How perfect their lives seemed to be! A Michelin star restaurant a stone's throw away, luxury shops every corner, the 2.7 million people living in the beautiful city of Chicago that always made you feel a part of a larger community, that never made you feel lonely. 

And there was the money. All those jobs that people spoke about with reverence: software engineer, doctor… I’d always wanted those jobs. Here, it was all about menial labor: working the fields, harvesting the corn, selling it off for money… We were by no means ‘poor’, with enough cash in the bank to live a comfortable existence, go to a good school, and fly out of the state every now and then.

But that wasn’t enough for the 30-year-old me. How secure it must feel, to be able to live in a luxury apartment, day by day, not having to worry about where my next meal would come from, being able to finally get my hands on those handsome looking jackets that gave you that “cool gangster” feel.

Against my parents’ wishes, soon I was on a train bound for Chicago. 

Ready to start my new, perfect life. 

It felt like I was finally moving toward the future I’d dreamed of, away from the annoying simplicity and almost deafening silence of this place that I’d always called home. The city shimmered in my mind as a promise, with its skyscrapers and endless energy, a world where I could be someone more than just a quiet guy from a small town. 

I was ready.

For the first few months, Chicago was every bit the thrill I’d expected. There was always something to do, someone to meet, lights so bright they washed away the stars, and sounds so constant you could never feel truly alone. I loved that anonymity, feeling both invisible and part of something much larger than myself. I was never alone; the liveliness of city life always made me feel secure. I loved the noise, the pace, and the constant flow of people, all of it a wonderful break from the quiet monotony of rural life.

I took up an internship as a software developer; I had a decent amount of experience at school. At work, people were sharp, fast-talking, and driven. My colleagues laughed at my “countryside” accent, my Midwestern way of taking things slow and steady, but I learned to talk fast, act fast, even think fast. Soon, I could almost convince myself I was fitting in, that this was the life I was meant to live, that this was the perfect call.

“How long have you been living here?”

It was during break one day. I think it was a year after moving in. We were down somewhere in a restaurant in Navy Pier, I think. Having dinner together with a colleague (I’ll just call him Mike), gazing out at Lake Michigan.

“Since I was born, dude! Born and raised here in Chicago!”

“And do you like it?”

“Well, if I’d hated it, I’d left long ago, don’t you think?” came Mike’s reply.

I didn’t really say anything. I gazed out at the surface of the lake, the reflections of countless lights across the city shimmering on the surface of the lake.

Yes, I loved Chicago too.

If I’d hated it, I’d left a long time ago.

That was true too. Life in the city was my destiny, my dream, my perfect life.

***

It was 5 years after that little interaction. That evening, I returned to that same restaurant (alone) to have some dinner after a day at work. I gazed out at the lake again, like I’d done 4 years ago, from that exact window.

It had been a year since the diagnosis. I still remember the doctor’s words.

Depression.

But how could it be? I argued with the doctor. That he was wrong. How could I be unhappy with my life?  How perfect my life seemed to be! A Michelin star restaurant a stone's throw away, luxury shops every corner, the 2.7 million people living in the beautiful city of Chicago that always made you feel a part of a larger community, that never made you feel lonely. 

Except, I now realized, it made me feel lonely.

The glittering lights of Chicago that once enraptured me now made the night bright, harsh and unnatural. The city’s wide streets seemed to close in on me. The 2.7 million people in the city never made you lonely, physically at least, but their constant chatter and hum of voices wherever I went reminded me of how little friends I had.

The diagnosis was no noisy or dramatic event. I went to work every day. I always appeared in that suit and tie. I always sat at the same desk, returned to the same apartment every evening, slept in the same bed every night. All the things I was “supposed” to do. But it wasn’t me going through the motions anymore.

I set down my fork and looked out of the window. The sun had fully set now, such that the window reflected everything in the room. And I saw someone else in the mirror.

The stranger in the reflection possessed my clothing, my face. But I knew it wasn’t me. The real me I knew did not walk around with a perpetually tired expression. The me I knew didn’t have such obvious dark circles under my eyes.

The real me would have hated this life.

How foolish and ironic it all seemed! Six years it took for me to realize such a simple and obvious truth.

In Chicago, there always something to do. Too much to do.

In Chicago, there was always someone to meet. Too many people to meet. Too many people I met, who I would never recall the names of, whose face I would not recognize, who served a fleeting and almost unimportant role in my non-existent life.

In Chicago, the lights were so bright they washed away the stars. When I was younger, my father had always pointed out constellations to me. Cygnus, Sagittarius, Orion, the likes. The vast, infinite, unknown universe had never ceased to amaze me. Here, I could only see about a hundred metres in front of me, my view from every direction obstructed by concrete and light.

After dinner, I took a walk along the shore of the lake. My eyes followed the light of a boat in the distance. I sighed.

I’d built my whole life around something, an idea, that had never been mine. I’d moved here, chasing a dream that belonged to someone else entirely, trying to force upon myself a version of me that I thought I liked, but in the end never truly wanted to become.

I remembered the fields back home, the tiny, close-knit town, where I knew almost all my neigbors down the street. The smell of the earth, the corn fields.

It was then that I realized what was ailing me.

I missed the simplicity of home.

Within a week, I resigned (much to the shock of my boss and colleagues) and moved back into my hometown.

Returning home wasn’t easy. I’d lived here all my life, but I was still gone long enough to feel like an outsider. It felt weird, waking up and not having to worry about catching the bus to work.

And best of all, I could take things slow and easy as I always did.

I took up a job as a naturalist. I began to rediscover my love for the world around me. I studied plants, animals, fungi, all those I had taken for granted, walking trails I’d ignored. The money I’d saved from my Chicago days allowed me to leave the state more often. Alaska, Yellowstone, the Sierra Nevada mountains. All those places I had been to ten, twenty years ago. I hated it for its isolation, its loneliness. Now, from a different lens, I began to see its beauty. I learnt to identify birds by their song, trees by their leaves, nature filling the world in colors no painting could ever recreate.

When I wasn’t out there studying life on earth, I would often sit out there in the front porch, a classical music playlist always next to me. The ethereal tones of the violin, the soothing, mellow tones of the cello, the soft, delicate notes of the piano, all seemed to intertwine and complement each other, a harmony.

Some might say I gave up on ambition. I say otherwise. I didn’t give up on dreams; I found the ones that were truly mine. I might not dine at Michelin star restaurants every other day; I might not have a flashy and prominent job, but every day, I wake up to a life that feels real, and truly mine.

I’m grateful for Chicago, even though I hated it. It made me understand something I failed to grasp for 30 years. Success isn’t always from a high-status, high-paying job, or a city with millions. What truly matters is doing what you love. For me, it was the simple joys of life.

Sometimes, the greatest journey is the one that takes you home.