Originally published on May 16, 2016. I’m re-publishing posts I’d had on this blog that, due to some glitch of the internet, got scrubbed. No editing has been done.

Anywhere but the middle.

When I was applying to colleges, that was my one rule. I looked at small east coast schools, big California schools, but nothing in between. What did the Midwest have to offer me? Those were the flyover states, the stretching expanse of monochromatic plains that you had to travel over to get to the good stuff.

Beyond my extreme bias, it should also be noted that I was stunningly ignorant. I thought Minneapolis was a quick 2 hour jaunt from Chicago. I thought all of the Midwest counted as the Bible Belt. Wasn’t it all flat, boring, and the same? Nope, not for me.

But those small east coast schools never felt right, and I wasn’t as enamored by California as I thought I would be. Instead, I found Northwestern, a school I loved from the first time I saw their website until the day I walked across the stage at Ryan Field.

Fast-forward 7 years from those dreadful college applications. Chicago and the Midwest have become home. The city streets and the stretching highways build an intricate map of my emergence into adulthood.

Seven autumns of watching football under royal blue skies framed by rusted leaves: eating cheese curds, drinking New Glarus, and cheering on my boys in green and gold.

I’ve had autumns of picking Wisconsin apples in diluted sunshine and getting lost in corn mazes with my best friends. I’ve had autumns walking home through Wrigleyville, packed with crowds of Cubs fans, drunk on Old Style, victory, and each other.

Seven winters of the truest form of cold. I’ve lived through Snowpocalypse 2011 and the Polar Vortex of 2014. I learned that hair can freeze. Nose hair can freeze. Everything can freeze.

Between permafrosts, we ice skate in Lincoln Park Zoo under lights, and we tiptoe on Lake Michigan’s frozen surf like trespassers. Just once, I did a polar plunge.

We commiserate in arctic coats and crowded trains. We take refuge in the marbled halls of the Art Institute, keeping warm next to Monet and Georgia O’Keeffe. They tell us their secrets, and we promise to return.

Seven springs of welcome rain and early daffodils. Springs spent in muddy cleats on fields across the region, from Long Field to Wrightwood Park and Washington Park – from the Milwaukee polo fields to South Bend, IN. I began writing about Ultimate, and I won’t ever stop.

I celebrated three St. Patrick’s Days in the only American city that knows how to both honor and disgrace the day: with green morning pancakes, Irish coffee, and a river that stays green for days while the city nurses its hangover.

And oh, the seven Chicago summers. I didn’t know the meaning of summer storm before I came here, and I’ll never fall out of love with them. I listened to jazz at the aquarium while the city bathed in summer outside. I discovered fireflies. I danced in the pavilion during free Millennium Park concerts. I sipped cocktails on rooftops. I sweat, a lot.

I dedicated hours of joy, tears, and hard work to Washington Park and to my teams: Ibex, Elevate, and Nemesis. I learned the city streets while delivering pizza. I observed 4th of July with the sweet smell of charcoal grills and the flicker of sparklers on Montrose Beach.

I’ve fallen in love over and over again. With the teammates who became my best friends; with the Subaru who became my passport to adventure; with Midwest ultimate; with a Midwestern boy; and finally, with the Midwest.

Wisconsin revealed rolling hills, great beer, and the best football team in the country. Iowa and Nebraska had the best sunrises I’ve ever seen. Indiana was… well, Indiana. I skated under Minnesotan bluffs and biked along the Mississippi. I ran down Michigan sand dunes and clambered up lighthouses.

It took a long time, but I know now that the flatlands aren’t flat at all. The people I’ve met and the community we’ve built? It’s complicated, colorful, and it will always be home. Even though I’m going, the Midwest will be with me.

Thank you, to whatever shift of fate made me apply to a school in Illinois. Thank you to everyone who accepted me despite my snobby refusal to eat seafood here and my scorn at the lack of composting. To everyone who loved me and helped me grow.

Thank you, Chicago, for letting me take my time to love you. My decision to leave comes from a place of love, not unhappiness. It’s time for the next adventure.

But I’ll come back, I promise.