In just a little over a month, I will have spent nine years of my life in India and the United States — more specifically the Bay Area. During the couple weeks leading up to the big move across the world nine years ago, I distinctly remember feeling a sense of melancholy. After all, I was leaving my home, my friends, teachers, and relatives, my favorite rusted swing in the playground, and my bus stop to school. But we locked up our apartment, packed our bags, bid our family goodbye, and headed off to California hoping we’d return after a couple years. 

Now, nearly nine years later, we haven’t moved back. My summers consist of tediously long journeys to India, and countless flights from one city to another once I’m there. It’s when I see my family as we stay up making up for lost time in ways weekly FaceTimes can’t; when we spend hours playing board games, celebrating birthdays, and reminiscing over how much everything has changed.

But summer always ends, and we always come back, ultimately resorting to the FaceTime calls until we meet next. And it’s only now, as I prepare to leave California for college, that I realize why we always came back — because somehow over the years, the Bay Area became home. Maybe it’s because I spent the later half of my life year, so I remember it more vividly. Maybe it’s because my rose-tinted view of the Bay Area only grew rosier. Maybe it’s just because I lucked out (I did) with my experiences here. And I know that this is probably true for every place, but I think this place became home because of the stories around me. 

Like the vendors at the farmer’s market who beam when they see my dad, yelling “good morning my friend!” when we stop at their stall like we have been for years. Like one of my first friends after moving here, who I wrote and directed plays with in the fifth grade. We never performed any, but I probably still have the scripts somewhere in my drawer. She also told me I was really bossy, but let me borrow the sixth book of the “Harry Potter” series under her library account. And like when I went from being scared of my eighth grade English teacher, to being on the most amazing terms with him. He became someone I could vent to, laugh with, and email incessantly. My emails never stopped — even when he moved away. 

These stories and people made me who I am. And like I mentioned before, it probably really is just because I’ve spent the more recent part of my life here, and these experiences are probably true for almost everyone. But I truly believe that despite the booming tech companies sprawling into every nook and cranny that define the Bay Area, this place is special. 

It’s no surprise that California is in its own bubble, separated from the rest of the country in the diverse ideas and beliefs it has. But I often feel like the Bay Area is in its own bubble too. Living here truly is a privilege. It’s hard, but rewarding nonetheless. Having lived here for so long, I used to pride myself on being aware of these bubbles I’m in — especially as someone who often preaches the importance of awareness. I always knew that California’s people, ideologies, stories and experiences weren’t representative of the U.S., and I thought that just being aware of that was enough to prepare me for life outside California. But it wasn’t until after I visited a completely different state for college that I realized I liked my California bubble. Despite knowing that living in the Bay Area can be blinding, because everyone tends to have similar beliefs and share similar experiences, I really love the rosy bubble I live in. 

I’m not completely sure why, but I think it all goes back to stories. My story is so tightly intertwined with the stories of this place and its people, that it has shaped me as a person. And that’s not to say that my stories in India didn’t shape me. The way I think about it, India defines me, but the Bay Area shaped and refined me in ways I don’t think any other place could have.