Vancouver welcomed me nearly three years ago. While I’d visited the Lower Mainland a few times previously, the gargantuan metropolis provided me with a new context — these enormous buildings, this futuristic train whizzing through the sky, the never-ending sounds of man-made movement. I felt a stirring excitement interrupted by bouts of awe and uncertainty that were expected upon moving to my new home.

After bidding farewell to the small town in which I grew up, I vowed to myself that I would never return for periods lasting longer than four months at a time. I was fed up with the never-ending sea of trees, the terribly rusted pick up trucks, the horses that trot through the Dairy Queen drive-thru, and most prominently, with recognizing the same damn people every single day.

Let me paint a general picture of what living in a rural setting for 18 years can be like. The small group of people you graduate high school with are most likely those who you went to preschool with. As such, you can’t avoid learning of all the trials and tribulations in your peers’ lives.

Some of you may see the positives in this situation, but those positives are also accompanied by the sinking realization that these are the only people in your world. There are rarely any fresh faces in the crowd, no new individuals to get to know and form friendships with.

Additionally, I’ll attest to the stereotypes of small town gossip; because everyone seems to converse with one another, it can be incredibly difficult to maintain a private life. I even remember instances where certain community members suddenly passed away, and many people in the town spread word of the tragedies before the family members of the deceased had even learned what had happened.

Generally speaking, those who have rarely left the small town in which they grew up are secluded in a dome of specific ideologies, with limited knowledge on what the world is like beyond the town’s borders.

Those who have rarely left their small town are secluded in a dome of specific ideologies.

Moving to Vancouver was overwhelming in that many of the people here had endlessly different perspectives on life, and were diverse in how they interacted with each other and even in what they wore.

I understand if it’s difficult for you to grasp my feelings — many of the friends I’ve made in Vancouver usually tell me they can’t — but the contrast between each setting surprised me upon my arrival.

Returning to my land of ignorance this past summer had me critically assessing my surroundings. Working at the local tourist centre, I met with families from around the world who were “awe-struck by the natural beauty of this tiny place,” by “how friendly the people are,” and how “everything is so close and convenient.”

Yes, a few visitors were put-out that there was no Starbucks or McDonald’s, but my mindset on ‘nowhere-ville’ shifted slightly upon hearing that European families were vacationing in the area for a couple of weeks at a time.

So I spent the summer hiking and exploring some of the outdoor areas that I’d visited before but had never given much attention to while growing up. I placed myself in the shoes of a city-person, absorbing my environment as if for the first time. The conclusions I came to transformed my perspectives on rural living.

I came to understand that, while cities like Vancouver offer immense opportunity in the hustle and bustle of daily life, small secluded towns and their surroundings can offer a place of quiet, relaxation, peace, and natural beauty; mine is a place that I have a connection with and can return to should I need to unwind, breathe, and ponder my next steps in life.

Sure, visiting the grocery store is a chore, as I can’t turn an aisle without bumping into someone I know who’ll want a full report on what I’ve been doing the last three years, but I can say that I feel privileged to understand the true differences between rural and urban living.

I look forward to returning home for a quiet Christmas with my family and friends, and waking up each morning to the feelings of homey comfort without so much as the sound of a car passing by.