I have always lived in the same place—the same suburban town, the same quiet house, the same small bedroom. 

Moving to Providence, going to college, for me, was the greatest adventure. The change of scenery, the colder winters, the charming autumns—I quickly fell in love. Providence could have been nothing—drab, dreary, dry—and I think I still would have loved it. I always say that Providence is my favorite city in the world. How could it not be? 

I once told an old friend at college that I liked Providence more than I liked New York City, the city I’ve grown up outside my whole life. They were baffled, giving argument after argument for why NYC was clearly better.

What they didn’t understand was that it wasn’t the energy, or the stores and shops, or the food, or the scenery, though I love those things, too, of course. But it was the memories, my memories, that fill Providence to the brim in a way that’s so overwhelmingly bittersweet. I can walk down Brook and get to the intersection of Power and remember every single time my junior year roommates and I would leave our dorm together to go to Coffee Exchange early in the morning. If I find myself on a run, going up Hope and passing Bowen, I’m taken back to the evenings of freshman year, the street sounds and car radios blasting, accompanying us on our mischievous late-night excursions. All the way down Williams, right by the river, is where my sophomore year memories live, long walks leading to adventures that took the whole afternoon, the confidence finally instilled in me to spend more time by myself and explore as much as the city had to offer.

Now in my senior year, I live off campus, and while this makes my connection to the city stronger than ever, it feels much sadder, like stepping through a door you’ve been waiting to open while hearing another close quietly behind you. I’m on campus less and less, finding myself instead exploring Ives at night with friends or spending my mornings up on Wickenden. It feels a lot less like being a student in Brown’s bubble and more like testing out what life is like beyond it. 

There are some streets, some parts of the city, that I walk through less and less, or feel like I actively avoid. The garden outside Bolt Coffee, where I called my mom and cried my eyes out freshman year, the dorm of an old ex-boyfriend across from the Ratty, the ghost buildings of beloved diners, and coffee shops that no longer exist. Shiny new apartment buildings tower over the quainter parts of the city, sticking out like sore thumbs. Houses of old friends who have now graduated. 

When I get sad about my upcoming departure, I try to remember what made me so happy and excited to be here in the first place. A sweet recollection: the thrill of a new city, the warm rush of meeting friends, the quiet murmur of all the people of Providence walking around, the buzz of music from all the cars, and my favorite smell—fresh hot coffee, wafting from every cafe. 

I think, maybe, that Providence is my favorite place, not because it is the most beautiful or the most exciting, but because it is the most familiar. It’s a familiarity shaped by time, memory, and shared experience. The streets are alive, living, and breathing with all the people who have traversed them before me. The houses can speak, telling the tales of each student who lived, changed, and became themselves within their walls. I look around my room, in our little home on Power, and the scattered trinkets on the bookcases and the photos on my walls remind me of the chaotic messiness of my freshman year dorm. How much I’ve changed with this city—this home.

Providence has seen me at my best, and Providence has seen me at my worst. In Providence, I have been told I summarize too much, and I have been told my writing is beautiful. I have run along the river, and I have stopped to sit by it for hours. I have bought groceries. I have failed tests. I have fallen in love. I have grown distant from friends. I have kept secrets. I have said too much. I have wished I said more. I have built a life, alongside friends who have made this city feel like home. 

I don’t think I am ready to leave. I don’t think I will ever be ready. And even worse, I don’t think I’ll be ready to come back. But every time I become distraught over the thought of the changes that are to come, I focus on this city, and the ways in which I have grown and changed within it, slowly, slowly, slowly. How nervous I was to come here, someplace so new, but I did it, and I can do it again. I let Providence stay alive inside me, stitched together by memories made on her busy streets. And I’ll carry Providence with me, letting her presence guide me wherever I go next.