The Return: Four Days in San Antonio and the Layers of Experience

The annual EOS QCE meeting was scheduled for San Antonio, and our T-Group of eleven implementers planned our annual one-day retreat for the Saturday following the event. It was a meaningful convergence of professional friendships and deep conversations—an opportunity to reflect, reconnect, and grow.

But as I packed my bags, I felt a subtle, nagging resistance.

The last time I lived in San Antonio, Mary and I, along with our two children, called Alamo Heights home. We lived on Tuxedo Avenue—Mary was the Assistant Head at St. Luke’s Episcopal School, the children attended Texas Military Institute, and I was on staff at St. Mark’s Episcopal Church downtown on Pecan Street. That was 40 years ago.

When we sold our home on Tuxedo Avenue and moved to Wilbraham, Massachusetts, our lives changed significantly. New England held a vastly different perspective on the world than Texas. We didn’t leave out of disappointment; we left because a new adventure called to us from the other end of the journey. Our new home on Brookside Circle in Wilbraham welcomed us, and Mary and I both took teaching positions at Wilbraham & Monson Academy, where our children continued their education.

After 11 years in Massachusetts, we moved again—this time to Laguna Beach, California, to be close to our first grandchild. That first grandchild is now 33 years old, a Captain in the LA County Fire Department, happily married, and the father of our two great-grandchildren.

So, the thought of returning to San Antonio after four decades stirred many emotions. What if we had stayed? How different were my beliefs, behaviors, and expectations after spending 40 years in New England and Southern California? Had my patterns of thought, ways of relating to people, and worldview changed so much that I would feel like an outsider in the place where I spent my first 35 years?

Resistance

When I arrived at the Marriott Resort in the Hill Country, I was struck by how the live oaks outside my first-floor room transported me back to my early years in Texas Hill Country. Memories of summer camp, school trips, and my four years at Texas Christian University came rushing in. The warm air felt familiar, almost comforting.

Yet, I still felt uneasy. I couldn’t put my finger on why.

This wasn’t a resistance to the city itself or the people—it was a resistance to something within me. I sat with the discomfort, allowing it to surface. And then, the realization came: I had never fully acknowledged the loss of leaving Texas.

Memory

The day after the business meeting ended, we took a Lyft to a hotel on the River Walk. As we drove toward downtown, the past came into sharper focus. The old Pearl beer brewery, the distant San Antonio skyline, and the familiar layout of the city—all pieces of a life I once lived.

That’s when I recognized the grief.

Leaving Texas had been an adventure, but it also meant leaving behind a life, a trajectory, a sense of identity tied to a place. At the time, I had pushed past that grief, focusing only on the excitement of what was ahead. But it had been there, waiting. And now, on a short car ride through my old city, it surfaced.

Once I allowed myself to feel the sadness, I also gained clarity.

Resolution

I didn’t have to return to San Antonio to honor its importance in my life. I could love a place without feeling the need to live there again. I could appreciate the city for what it had been in my earlier life, without trying to compare it to where I had lived since.

I also realized how my perspectives on Texas had been shaped by the stereotypes I had absorbed over the years—from media, from my time in New England and California, from the ways I had defined my own journey in contrast to my origins.

The deeper truth was that I didn’t have to choose between places.

A Fuller Perspective

We often think of emotions as competing forces—joy versus sorrow, nostalgia versus progress. But the reality is that they can coexist, layering upon each other without contradiction. I could feel the love for my time in San Antonio while also feeling gratitude for the life I built elsewhere. I could feel the weight of what was left behind while also celebrating the expansiveness of my journey.

Leaving with More Than I Brought

I love San Antonio—the Alamo, the house on Tuxedo Avenue, St. Mark’s Church. I can appreciate them without needing to return permanently. At the same time, I love my life in New England and California.

San Antonio didn’t change. I did. And in embracing that, I found peace in the return.

Have you ever returned somewhere and felt a mix of emotions? What did you learn from it?