I will come back. Won't I?

I'm two night shifts away from my holidays in Nova Scotia. That, in itself, is huge for many reasons: Christmas is a massive, tradition-filled affair for my family; I missed last Christmas at home; it's my first festive season as a single, unmarried lady; it's my first holiday in six years without my ex; and it's my first trip back East since "coming out" as, essentially, a relationship failure. (Sometimes, the fact that I suck at relationships bothers me. Other times, as I lazily type away on my computer in the middle of the night after working a weird shift, knowing I can do whatever I want, I realize that I actually like living alone.)

Holiday pressures, holiday travel, and even the fact that I simply don't know what to do with myself when I'm not working all further compound the stress and anticipation for the holiday.

But above all else, I'm most worried about how I'm going to manage when it's over. I was discussing my last trip with a friend earlier today, and confessed to him that my last trip home resulted in me sobbing - like that ugly kind of full body grief sobbing - in the airport. What I didn't dare confess - and prayed that he didn't notice - was that even just talking about my return to Toronto, in that simple, superficial, 'Oh, I'm gone for a week' way, made me feel both weepy and anxious.

Obviously, it was an emotional time. And it's always hard to say goodbye to my family and friends and that delicious salt air. But there was more to it than that. I simply did not want to leave.

And that was, quite frankly, shocking. I'd been planning my exit strategy from middle-of-nowhere Nova Scotia from the moment I realized there was another bigger, brighter world out there. The second I could leave my hometown, I did. And while there were moments of homesickness, and a desire to visit, I never wanted to move back. When I talk about my hometown, I always say, "It's a great place to visit. For a few days."

But, since this summer, I've been incredibly sappy about it. I hear myself saying things like "I'd move back in a heartbeat. To the city though, not where I grew up." I never thought I'd say such a thing. I never thought I'd even look back. I say it. I feel it. But it wasn't until tonight - not even this morning while chatting with my friend did it make sense to me - why this summer hit me so hard and why, hopefully, this time will be different.

I'm connected to Nova Scotia. As I begrudge sounding like a Bluenoser, complain about how remote and rural my upbringing was and worship Joel Plaskett, I really do have the salt air in my veins. It's familiar, it's comforting, and it's mine. They're my people, they're my family and friends. I can walk down the street and see people I know. I can order in garlic fingers (when I visit my brother. There's no delivery in my parent's neck of the woods) until 2 in the morning, which used to feel positively decadent. Even though I moved out of my parent's house and community (it's not even a town. Seriously.) more than seven years ago I still have ties there in addition to my history.

And, especially this summer, I was feeling pretty rootless. There was nothing tying me to Toronto. I didn't have to worry about abandoning someone else to go chase a ridiculous job opportunity. I didn't have to compromise on where I lived. I had a few friends, yes, and many more now, but they were all new to my life. Even now, several months of relationship-building later, if I moved away, I would likely be missed, but no one would be devastated. Or even all that put out.

I had choices, and I hadn't yet made up my mind. And Nova Scotia welcomed me back with a bear hug, a pint of beer and a rendition of Farewell to Nova Scotia, performed by my brother and his band for me at a local bar, that was like waking up in the morning cozy and cuddled in bed with a steaming cup of tea, a newspaper and nowhere to go.

As opposed to my new and scary uncommitted relationship with Toronto - where we were just testing the waters, looking for chemistry and terrified to so much as hold hands in public - Nova Scotia, and Halifax in particular, was the one who got away. There wasn't a big breakup, because we just never tried. The timing, the lifestyles, we just couldn't make it mesh, so instead we carefully guarded our close relationship and were just left wondering, "What if?" Nova Scotia was the gent who knew to wake me up with a cup of tea in the morning and that I need a shower before I'm fit for the outside world. Who knew that I'm a workaholic and that sometimes someone just has to take care of me through a deadline, with a steady supply of tea, snacks and encouraging words, then hold me as I crash out on the sofa with a blanket and Amelie when there are just no words left. Nova Scotia was that man who never swept me off my feet. He was always there. And I just took him for granted and never gave him a proper chance.

Now, Nova Scotia's still there, alluring in its cozy flannel shirts and thoughtful familiarity. But Toronto - and getting bumped up to a full-time position at the Star - has seduced me like a hot fling, leaving me stunned and breathless. The ever well-dressed, eloquent Toronto may still play hard to get sometimes, and not always call when it says it will, but it has convinced me to give it a chance. And, I know, selfishly, that if Toronto and I burn out in a spectacular fashion - as all the best, most passionate relationships do - that Nova Scotia will still be waiting there to provide a shoulder to cry on and the support to get back on my feet.

So this time, hopefully, there will be fewer tears at the airport. And I will be able to appreciate the reprieve from the hot and heady Toronto lifestyle without being willing to throw it away entirely. But a part of me is still fearful that, as much as I love my life here now, that once I'm back in that welcoming East Coast embrace, I just might not have the strength to leave it.