I never wanted to live in the suburbs

And now I’m back in the same one I grew up in. With kids. And a garage. And… I don’t hate it?

She’s hip! She’s fun! She’s riding packed streetcars, waiting in hour-long brunch lines, and meeting her pals at tiny bars with music so loud her hearing is damaged! And she will definitely never live in the suburbs.

I never wanted to live in the suburbs. Not even a little.

Growing up here, all I could think about was leaving. The plan was to live in a cool neighbourhood in an exciting city, with cute little coffee shops at every corner, and never look back. I didn’t even drink coffee back then, but I liked just knowing it was there.

Suburbia, in my mind, was for people who wanted simple, boring things. It was for minivans and chain restaurants and Walmarts. A place for those who didn’t want or need more.

And I wanted more. Or at least, something that looked different from what I’d always known. Something that didn’t feel like settling.

While some kids wanted to stay in high school forever, I graduated a year early, so desperate to leave. I moved to Montreal, which felt like another universe: secret dance parties in lofts, indie concerts in dive bars, art shows and drum circles. I was surrounded by endless creativity, great fashion, and incredible food. Everyone seemed cooler, edgier, more alive. It was love at first poutine.

After university, I lived at home for less than a year—just long enough for my exciting new marketing job to cover first and last month’s rent on a tiny-but-all-mine apartment in a trendy neighbourhood in Toronto. It was exactly what I’d always dreamed of: vintage stores, music venues, street festivals, patios with overpriced cocktails that made me vomit thanks to my recent GERD diagnosis. It felt like freedom.

Even after I had my first son, we stayed in the city, in another very hip neighbourhood, walking distance to the best restaurants and cafes, where I could still feel like I wasn’t a sellout, even while pushing a stroller. Then we moved to the east end of the city for more space, which I was initially hesitant to do—it felt a bit like aging out of the cooler side of the city. But I loved it there too. I was a mom, now with two kids, but I was still interesting—and still definitely not a gal who would end up back in the suburbs.

I had a whole story in my head about what it meant to live in the suburbs as an adult. It meant giving up. It meant yoga pants instead of skinny jeans (RIP), pillows that say “live, laugh, love”, and having to get in the car and drive for every minor errand. It meant I’d become one of those people, a suburban pod person my younger self would have silently judged.

And then we bought a house in the suburbs.

It wasn’t some grand decision or aha moment. More like a slow crumbling of resistance and realization that we couldn’t afford what we wanted if we stayed in the city. We looked at so many houses downtown, paid for multiple inspections, and tried getting comfortable with the idea of asbestos in the walls and neighbours we could hear snoring through the wall.

We kept telling ourselves it was doable. That we’d be fine sharing a tiny bathroom with two growing boys. That cozy charm made up for a cramped space. But after exploring some houses on the outskirts of the city, our mindset shifted. We knew we wanted more—especially if we were about to spend an absurd amount of money on something we weren’t even excited about.

I tried to deny it even as I saw reality unfolding before my eyes: we were moving to the suburbs. The same one I’d been so eager to leave.

After we moved, I clung to my identity as a city dweller. I drove back downtown to see friends, complained about how empty the sidewalks were, lamented dining in restaurants sandwiched between optometry clinics and dry cleaners in sterile strip plazas. When people asked how I was liking it, I’d say we loved the house, but I was still coming to terms with the move, like I’d suffered some great tragedy instead of gaining a garage and access to a toilet whenever I needed one.

But as time passed, my attitude changed, bit by bit. I stopped pretending this was temporary and started realizing I didn’t actually hate living here—I just thought I was supposed to. Because admitting I liked it meant admitting I wasn’t who I thought I was. Or at least, not anymore. I stopped trying so hard to be unhappy and started paying attention to what I actually liked.

I like that we have room for all our stuff, and for all of us. A large kitchen with counter-space. A backyard. A garage I can put my car in whenever it snows.

I love that my kids can ride their scooters around the neighbourhood without me panicking about aggressive cyclists or their wheels getting caught in a streetcar track.

I love that my laundry room is on the main floor. I love that I have a laundry room.

I love that I don’t hear sirens or noisy trucks outside my window. I love the quiet. The trails. That no one is crowding me on the sidewalk.

And I really love not having to choose between paying for parking vs. spending an absurd amount of time looking for a spot only to find one a kilometre away from where I need to be, with a one-hour limit and a lingering fear I might get towed. Now I can always get a spot, and it’s always free.

I love that I live ten minutes from my parents. They can watch the kids or pick them up from school in a pinch, come to karate ceremonies or meet us at the park. I love not having to pack the car like we’re about to go on a cross-country road trip just to have lunch at their house.

I love that I reconnected with friends from my childhood and now know their spouses and their kids. That my children get to grow up with people who knew me when I was their age. That I can say things like, “This is where I used to play hide-and-seek with my friends at lunch” and, “That’s the street where my best friend lived.”

I love my kids’ amazing public school and our local community centre. The great parks that are never busy, with wide-open fields where the kids can run around and I don’t have to keep eyes on them every second. I love that there are so many young families, so many kids, and that Halloween turns our neighbourhood into a tourist attraction. I love having a mall. I love that every grocery chain is within a 5-minute drive.

I love the lack of mice in my house and absence of rats in my backyard.

And sure, I’m still an introvert, and seeing someone I know every time I leave the house can be a lot. But there’s a comfort in that, too. There’s comfort in knowing that if an emergency happened, there are so many people a quick walk or 2-minute drive away I can call—people I’d trust with my kids with zero hesitation.

I now see that I missed the idea of “my old life” more than the actual reality of it. I read a comment buried in a Reddit thread that summed it up so perfectly. It was something like: “I don’t actually miss the city, I miss living in the city in my 20s, but that’s not the life we were living now anyway.”

We had all these cool things around us but how often was I really using them? I wasn’t going to bars anymore. I didn’t need artisanal cheese shops and organic grocers and cute boutiques I couldn’t afford to shop in. I needed somewhere I could buy cereal, school supplies, and a sled all in one place, with a big parking lot out front.

It’s my pre-kid city life—my pre-kid life, in general—that I miss, but that doesn’t exist anymore. I’m nostalgic for that time, and it was fun while it lasted, but I’m in a totally different phase of life now. And the suburbs, weirdly, fit that phase better than I thought they would.

The hustle and bustle of city living works really well for a lot of people. It just stopped working for me.

These thoughts aren’t profound and my experience isn’t unique. I’ve known many people, read many essays, and seen countless social media posts with the exact same story—parents with young kids decide they’ve had enough of the city, move to the suburbs, and live happily ever after.

I don’t know if we’re quite at happily ever after, but we’re at something pretty close to happy. Sure, I may be writing this while sipping from an absurdly large Stanley cup—but I’m still me. Just a little more hydrated.

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