Grieving a Place I Once Called Home

I’ve just returned home to Mexico after a ten-day whirlwind visit to the San Francisco Bay Area—my old home, or my old stomping grounds, so to speak. I lived in the Bay Area for over 35 years, and I carry with me tons of wonderful, fun-loving, and heartwarming memories from that time.

As much as I love my home in Mexico, I found myself several times longing for my past life in the Bay—yearning for my old home, old friends, and the deep friendships I built. I missed the unique activities I once participated in, the kind that only the Bay has to offer.

At one point, I even found myself driving past my old house just north of Berkeley, California. A sudden desire to see it—and feel its energy—washed over me. I loved that house, and I felt that it loved me back. Ours was a reciprocal relationship. My husband and I threw many great parties there, complete with live music. At one point, we even hosted Airbnb guests. It truly was party central!

With great anticipation and excitement, I turned down Columbia Avenue, eager to feel the thrill of seeing my old home again. But I was shocked. It had been painted a different color. The fragrant rose bushes were gone. The huge aloe plants had been ripped out of the front yard. What stood before me was only a shell of the home I remembered. It had been violated, defaced.

I felt the loss so intensely that it took my breath away. In that moment, I allowed myself to feel deeply sad and mourn the loss of that home. I realized I’d been holding onto a secret hope that, one day, I might return and live in that house again. But as I looked at what remained, the truth dawned on me: I can never go back to that space and time in my life.

Yes, I was experiencing loss and grief, all rolled into one. I allowed myself to be present with those emotions. I didn’t try to squash or suppress them—I let myself feel them fully.

I stared at the house and silently thanked it for all the love it had given me—for the wonderful times I’d had and shared with so many beautiful people.

As I drove away, a little sadness lingered, but it was soon overshadowed by the deep gratitude I felt for those eight blissful years in that home.

Returning to Mexico, I carry in my heart and mind the memories of my time on Columbia Avenue. And I know: it’s not a house that makes a home, but the energy of the people who fill it. Our home here in Mexico is filled with love. The same love that filled the house on Columbia Ave.

Love,

Bonnie

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