Toronto was my first view of Canada, a grey slushy view in the dead of March that called into question all of my parents’ life choices. After the idyll of a tiny German university town (complete with castle ruins!), nothing about this place that was too big and too loud and too cold made sense. It had giant box stores in the middle of the city and a downtown that wasn’t dedicated to pedestrians. It was basically barbaric.

It wasn’t where we ended up settling when we finally made it here, a few months later. We wound up in Ottawa instead. And Ottawa felt like home as much as Germany or China had felt like home, which is to say that it was my answer when people asked me where I was from and I didn’t feel too weird about it. But after four transcontinental moves in 11 years I felt restless if I stayed in one place for too long, and as soon as I could leave I moved to Kingston for school, then Toronto for work, then North Carolina for a boy, then Toronto again when I no longer loved him (though I hadn’t realized that at the time). When opportunity called from Vancouver, I didn’t think twice about picking up my life and driving 55 hours across the country with my cat and my husband. There was no reason to think that this move would be different from any previous move I had made before.

Almost immediately, I missed Toronto with a fierceness that surprised me. A fierceness that I recognized even then was probably not rooted in pure unadulterated love for Toronto, but was rather a reflection of everything that had gone wrong in my world after I left. We moved to Vancouver, and Trump got elected. We moved to Vancouver, and there were deaths in the family, and mental health crises, and cancer (fuck cancer). We moved to Vancouver, and the rain started and never ended. A city is not to blame for the traumas that occur within its boundaries, but the hurt has to go somewhere.

In Vancouver, we lived a five minute walk from an urban corridor that had been expressly planned so that the view to the mountains would be unobstructed for miles. This view was part of my daily commute, the backdrop to my coffee runs, and all I ever felt was a gnawing guilt that this sight didn’t move me as everyone said it would. In May, when the rain finally relinquished its death grip on the city, Vancouver was beautiful—streets lined with cherry blossoms, green everywhere you look. There were summer days where, lounging on a beach waiting my turn on a rented paddleboard, Vancouver felt like Camelot. All I wanted to do was leave.

I knew the surface reasons why we had to leave Vancouver: we found it hard to make friends, the natural rhythm of the city clashed with our night owl habits, we’re not outdoorsy at the best of times, and then there was the fucking rain. None of these really felt like good enough reasons not to stay. When people asked us why we were moving back, we gave non-committal answers that invoked families and careers that sounded right and were technically accurate. But they weren’t true. What was true was that one night in Vancouver, I sat down with a novel that opened with a lonely walk home from the Elgin theatre along Yonge Street towards Cabbagetown, and I started crying and couldn’t stop for a long time.

I didn’t just miss the vibrant neighbourhoods that were as close as you get to genuine multiculturalism. I didn’t just miss the sight of the CN Tower piercing the skyline against all decent notions of aesthetics. I didn’t just miss the stadium that will forever be known as the Skydome and the venue that will forever be known as the Air Canada Centre. I didn’t just miss the way Lake Ontario sparkles on a rare sunny day in the midst of an interminable winter, or the shocking green of the Don Valley in the rushed glimpse out a subway car window between Castle Frank and Broadview.

It wasn’t even that I missed the people, although I did, with a dull ache that didn’t feel like pain so much as a deadening of all my nerves.

The thing is, I missed who I was when I was in Toronto, the version of myself that only seemed to exist here. I missed being the kind of person who knew where to go and how to get there. I missed feeling a vast spider web of connections stretch before me, seemingly just a text away. I missed the freedom to be a stranger, knowing that safety was just around the corner. I missed feeling like there was always something to do, someone to see, and that if I chose to stay home tonight then tomorrow would be another day filled with wondrous things I would probably still be too lazy to engage with.

I could probably have built the same in Vancouver again, if I’d tried hard enough. I was 27 when we moved there, privileged with the blithe arrogance of 27-year-olds that let me believe that I wouldn’t ever truly fail at anything simply because it hadn’t happened yet.

But that invincibility won’t last forever, and eventually could be turns into could have been. How much more time was I willing to lose in the rebuild, capriciously tearing up roots every time the wind changed and pretending that I didn’t mourn shedding the flotsam that made the difference between a house and a home? My entire life thus far I’d tried on new cities like I try on clothes, imagining that my terror of not living up to my potential couldn’t catch up to me if I just kept running. What happens when I get tired?

I truly wish I had liked Vancouver more. I would have loved to have stayed amidst the gorgeous vistas of mountains and trees and water.

Toronto is a little grimy and brash and obnoxious. That’s okay. I’m a little grimy and brash and obnoxious, too. We have great intentions and terrible follow-through and we tell ourselves lies about our own virtue, Toronto and I, pretend our motivations are more noble than they are. We ask for the moon and usually fall short and only then do we discover it was probably the wrong question to ask in the first place.

Truth be told, Toronto annoys the shit out of me. The soul-killing traffic, the sociopathic drivers, the overcrowded and underfunded subway, the ruthless real estate, the inhumane gentrification. The absurd machinations of city hall and the 45 (then 47) (then 25) city councilors and the endless downtown-suburb culture war exacerbated by the lingering ghost of amalgamation. The way that every conversation converges towards the cost of housing, which is also why there is a preponderance of finance bros and a dearth of starving artists making cool shit. The way that the brief months of summer are gauzed with dust and misery from the sprawling construction the way our half year of winter is caked with gray slush, too warm to be pretty and far too cold to be outside. I hate how people in other cities talk about Toronto, and when I’m in Toronto, I hate the benign narcissism that gives rise to that reputation.

None of this is special, not even the civic self-loathing. There are many cities, most of them more alike than different. Maybe cities don’t actually have personalities and it’s just the taxi light theory, and my stints in Toronto coincided with when I was ready for a home. Or maybe they do, and Toronto’s meshes with mine like a particularly satisfying puzzle piece clicking into place.

Probably it doesn’t matter. There are many cities. Toronto happens to be mine.