“Wait… Should I Live Here?”

Written By : Hannah Corbett

There’s a feeling I get when I travel somewhere new, whether it’s for a weekend trip or just a few hours, and it’s this fluttery, persistent whisper: wait… should I live here?

It happened again yesterday, in Charleston. I was there for the day (a luxury I can now say is just a short drive away), and by hour two, after weaving through cobblestone streets, sipping an iced latte in the shade of pastel buildings, and mentally picking out which house I’d claim as mine, there it was again. That feeling.

Charleston has it all. The beach, the charm, the coffee shops that look like Pinterest boards. It makes total sense why it’s at the top of the list for people in their twenties to move to. And for a second, or maybe more than a second, I was like, wait… should I live here?

But then the heat settled in. I was hopping between air-conditioned boutiques just to survive. And by the end of the day, I wasn’t dreaming about new beginnings anymore. I just wanted to go home.

Home, where my car is waiting to take me to Target without needing a grocery cart and a wagon. It’s where the beach is my regular 3 minute drive away, not a novelty. It’s where I can breathe.

Still, it’s hard not to fall in love with places. Little towns with charm and character. Cities that make you feel alive and anonymous in the same breath. Islands where time stretches out like a hammock. I’ve felt it everywhere, from Greece and Spain to Martha’s Vineyard and Long Beach Island. And every single time, I think: I could do this. I could move here. I could become someone who lives here.

And then I remember. I’m not a nomad.

I have a dog, a boyfriend, and a full-time job. I like my routines. I like knowing where to go for the best bagel, the best walk, the best version of my life. The idea of picking up and starting over constantly doesn’t quite align with my desire for a backyard and a house that smells like Sunday pancakes.

So I’ve been trying to understand that feeling. That “should I live here?” feeling. I think it’s less about actually uprooting and more about what it stirs in us. It’s about possibility. It’s a flicker of curiosity, a glimpse into a version of ourselves we could maybe become if we said yes to something totally new.

Maybe it’s a sign we’re still dreaming. Still imagining alternate futures. Still open. That feeling might never fully go away, and maybe it shouldn’t.

Because even if I stay exactly where I am, I still get to carry those versions of myself around. The one who might live in a cottage in Rhode Island. The one who bikes through a Greek island village. The one who, for a few hours in Charleston, pictured her life unfolding on a porch with a swing and Spanish moss swaying overhead.

Maybe that’s enough for now, or maybe I’ll win the lottery and have six houses all over the world. Only time will tell.