HIGH COST OF LEAVING

On roots, restlessness and the price of belonging

By Ken Gagne

A few months ago, I stood in a banquet room in Chicopee, Mass., attending my high school class’s 40-year reunion. Forty years? It felt like a clerical error, the kind I assumed someone would correct once I pointed it out.

The faces were familiar in the way old furniture is familiar; you recognize the shape even after it’s been reupholstered. We hugged. We laughed. We squinted at name tags. Knee pain was discussed. So were hairlines. Then came the standard progress report: kids, where they landed, whether they call. Jobs, or the absence of them. Who had retired, who wanted to, who didn’t admit researching AARP discounts.

Eventually, the conversation drifted, as it always does, to the little question that looms largest.

So … where do you think you’ll end up?

I gave a vague answer. I’m good at those. Because the truth is, my wife Jackie and I have been circling that same question for years. We respond differently depending on the week, the temperature, the latest tax bill or which one of us has just returned from town thinking, “I love this place,” or from Zillow thinking, “We need to talk.”

For the past five years, we’ve played the same game nearly everywhere we’ve traveled: Could we live here? It’s not even a plan anymore – it’s a reflex.

Some places are appealing because they feel like a homecoming. Cape Cod. Narragansett. The Berkshires. New England landscapes that whisper the belonging of a familiar accent. There’s something comforting about the idea of beginning and ending in roughly the same area, scratching my irrational itch for symmetry.

Other places pull because of people. Richmond. Wilmington. Hilton Head. Ponte Vedra. Cities where close friends may end up. Moving there would be less coincidence and more gravity.

There are places that represent adventure. Santa Fe. Joshua Tree. Sedona. Places that promise clarity, or at least good light, and quiet distances that stir the spirit.

There are nearby spreadsheet states. Delaware and New Hampshire. Places where waterfront dreams flirt with the absence of a state income tax and make a compelling case in Excel.

And of course, there are passport places. Portugal. Costa Rica. Montreal. Tempting ex-pat sanctuaries offering the illusion of escape.

Last year, our most serious plan was to sell our house in Maplewood and rent an apartment. Maybe in New York City, where our adult kids live, or Hoboken just across the Hudson, or find a spot here in town. But then the question sneaks in: How important is it to be a quick train ride from our children at this stage of life? Close enough to buy them brunch or far enough to let them live? The answer changes more often than Trader Joe’s relocates the hummus.

Some days, the most appealing option is the simplest one: stay put. Keep the house. Book Airbnbs when we need a reset. Pretend indecision is wisdom.

There are a hundred reasons to remain. We like the seasons. Well, I like the seasons. Jackie is a “fair-weather fan” of the seasons. We like the inclusiveness here, the feeling that difference isn’t just tolerated but expected. We have a low interest rate on a mortgage that’s slowly winding down. We’ve saved responsibly. We can pay our bills. We have health insurance. We’re young enough. Healthy enough. Jackie enjoys strolling in the reservation. I enjoy playing softball with my buddies. We both love city culture, live music and weekend trips upstate.

Our street is a suburban planner’s masterpiece. Social, caring, close-knit. The neighbors up and down the block aren’t just neighbors. They’re family, and they’re part of our story. Moving away from them would hurt.

The emotional cost of leaving feels enormous, but so does the financial one.

New Jersey has the highest property taxes in the country. Our $27,000 annual nut has almost tripled since we moved here in 1999. Our house has quadrupled in value, but our modest lot hasn’t grown. It takes only 11 giant mother-may-I steps to cross our yard – a short walk with a long receipt.

Some websites claim the best states to retire to are Florida and Wyoming. I’d like to submit a counterargument: the best place to retire is the one you’re already in, assuming that’s where your people are. Where your friendships live. Where your history still knocks on the door.

For us, for now, that place is Maplewood.

In 10 short years, at my 50th high school reunion back in Chicopee, someone will raise the question: Where’d you end up?

Maybe by then I’ll have a better answer. Or maybe I’ll say what feels truest: that we’re still deciding. That home isn’t just a destination you land on, but a choice you make again and again. That sometimes staying is the bravest move. And moving, the hardest sell.

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Ken Gagne grew up in Chicopee, Mass., and has lived in New Jersey for 35 years. He is an author, former television producer and aging athlete. More at kengagnebooks.com