We drove through my old neighborhood recently , and let me tell you—I was not emotionally prepared.
There I was, sipping my iced coffee like it was just another Tuesday, when suddenly we turned down the street I grew up on and felt like I’d accidentally went onto a movie set. Except the movie wasn’t nostalgic and heartwarming—it was more like Where the Hell Did Everything Go?
See, I grew up in Federal Hill—or as we called it back then, good old South Baltimore. It was gritty, loud, full of life, and packed with character. Everyone knew everyone, and if they didn’t know you, they definitely knew your mother. We didn’t have fancy stores or brunch spots with $16 avocado toast—we had corner stores with penny candy, and the kind of neighbors who would smack you upside the head if you mouthed off (and then tell your mom before you even got home).
There’s a grief that comes with seeing the place that raised you start to vanish in slow motion. You expect the big losses in life—death, divorce, career changes. But no one really prepares you for what it feels like when the corner where you used to get penny candy is now a vape shop called “Cloud Kingdom.” Or when the corner bar has turned into a juice bar with smoothies that cost more than your first car payment.
It’s a strange ache. A grief without a funeral.
I remember when Federal Hill wasn’t the trendy spot it is today. It was blue collar and proud. We had grit. We had stories. We had traditions—like egg picking at Easter, crabs on the weekends, and fireworks you weren’t quite sure were legal.
Now it’s all strangers and Teslas and no one waves anymore. What happened to waving?!
And don’t get me started on the new houses. They’re all “open concept” and “smart home” and “minimalist.” Like they just don’t belong. Honey, I grew up in a rowhome with wallpaper that would give you vertigo. And guess what? We had character.
Now, I’m not saying change is bad. I get it—life moves forward. But sometimes, it feels like it’s sprinting ahead while you’re standing on the sidewalk holding a photo album full of moments no one remembers but you.
What I’ve realized, though, is that this grief isn’t just about buildings or street names. It’s about identity. It’s about feeling like the places that made you don’t exist anymore, and wondering if that means some piece of you is gone, too.
But here’s the twist—those memories? They live in me. In the way I still make my coffee the way my mom did. In the way I plant hibiscus in my garden because that’s what she loved. In the way I still feel like skipping when I hear the Good Humor jingle.
My neighborhood may have changed. But I haven’t forgotten.
So yeah, maybe the old block looks like a stranger now. But the stories? The laughter? The lessons? They’re stitched into my soul, right next to all the other things I carry while starting over at 47.
And who knows—maybe it’s time to build a new “neighborhood” of my own. One where I get to pick who’s on the porch, what kind of flowers bloom, and whether or not we serve overpriced smoothies (hint: we don’t).
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