I had to leave Vancouver before I could call it home
The city is a paradox — calling us to it for its liveability while also being a lonely place for newcomers
This First Person column is the experience of Caitlyn Moony, who wants to make Vancouver her home. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
An ex once sent me the link to a song by British indie artist Passenger that goes, "Only know you love her when you let her go," in a misguided attempt to win me back. I deleted the message. Because it's a bit rude, isn't it, to admit to someone you only want them once you've gone your separate ways?
But now it's my turn to stare wistfully out the window and think about what I once had.
When I first moved to Vancouver from Johannesburg in 2018, I had done my research. I had worked as a freelance social researcher in South Africa. It was a job I loved but the work opportunities to advance in my career were few and far between and the pay was abysmal. I worried that I would not be able to provide for myself as I grew older, let alone care for my parents when the time came. I'd already lived in Ukraine, southeast Asia and the U.K. by then. Uprooting myself and starting from scratch is just part of my DNA. Plus Vancouver — which is consistently rated as one of the best cities to live in — was already home to my sister and her growing family. I thought that Canada with its thank you's and sorry's and handsome prime minister would be a walk in the park.
Even before getting on the plane, I knew that I could do my sun salutations among the legging-clad hipsters in Kitsilano before taking the gondola up Grouse Mountain, skiing straight down the slopes and splashing into English Bay for a quick dip before heading to Yaletown for a swanky cocktail.
When I arrived in Vancouver, I was, of course, awed by the city's beauty. I gasped at the towering North Shore mountains that were visible even when I was sipping on a hot chocolate nearly 30 kilometres away in the heart of the city. I grinned at the enchanting muted patter of raindrops falling in Pacific Spirit Park as I strolled with my oldest nephew under the trees. I was charmed as bus drivers pulled over during the morning commute to grab themselves a cup of coffee.
But as the months wore on, I realized it wasn't love — not really. Because when Vancouver wasn't fitting the exact expectation I had of it, I resented the city bitterly.
I had no networks in Vancouver and none of the all-powerful "Canadian experience" that every job posting seemed to be whispering between the lines. I took an admin job at a startup where I worked 14-hour days and got paid just enough to afford the eye-watering rent for a basement suite where I — at five feet four inches — grazed my head against the low ceiling. Thanks to paper-thin walls and my neighbour's penchant for 2 a.m. operatic renditions of Taylor Swift, I was exhausted.
I took my feelings of helplessness and turned them into scorn. I scoffed at the limited routes of the Skytrain compared to London's tube and huffed with impatience at the West Coast pace of life; the way simple conversations seemed to take hours. I hated the wet dog smell that snuggled itself into bus seats and elevators as it rained and rained for months on end.
But mostly, I missed people. Previously, I had lived in ready-made communities as a teacher, volunteer or student. I was primed to fold myself in seamlessly like a blob of soft butter tossed into cake batter. But I was lonely, and Vancouver felt devoid of crowds I could merge with. I could never figure out where everyone was.
Finally, I gave in and asked a friend where the people were.
"Who?" He wanted to know.
"Everyone!" I wanted to yell. "You know, generally… the population?" I offered timidly instead.
He looked around and rubbed his jaw agonizingly slowly. "It's pretty good weather out. They're probably hiking."
I looked out through the steamed-up window, rain pattering gently against the glass.
"And in bad weather?" I asked nervously.
"Staying at home. Maybe playing board games. Hobbies. You know, hibernating."
I wanted to scream; the loneliness and boredom were suffocating me. And then the pandemic hit, and all those feelings intensified. For two years I waited in my apartment for the world to open up again. As soon as it was possible, I left for London. I had lived there before and I knew the heaving chaos of the city would let me come up for air.
And I loved it, of course. The theatres, the cafes, the music. The people. So many people.
But this time, I felt like a tourist. During my years in Vancouver, my soul had stealthily been shifting on me, morphing into something quieter. Steadier. Something decidedly more West Coast. I had been expecting to settle into a community, but what I had found instead was the stillness to figure myself out. I hadn't been able to barge my way into the city and take up space for myself on my terms; Vancouver is too confident to tolerate such brashness. But with time and distance, I think we have made space for each other. We know what boundaries to set and how we want to be treated by each other.
And so, Vancouver, I know you are not perfect. I know you have bad days. I know that your buses will smell like wet dogs for six months of the year. But all I want is to snuggle up and play Scrabble with you, maybe go for a hike if the weather eases up. I packed my bags and my flight landed earlier this month. Will you take me back?
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