A Goodbye letter from Austin

I stood at the edge of Lady Bird Lake, the fading sun casting a golden hue over the water, as if the city itself were trying to hold onto me just a little longer. Austin had always been more than a place on a map to me — it had been my compass, my chaos, my comfort. And now, I was saying goodbye.

I came here six years ago with a suitcase and a restless heart. Austin was supposed to be a temporary stop, a “see how it goes” kind of move. But like most people who fall into this city’s rhythm, I got caught in its charm. The music on every corner, the tacos at 2 a.m., the strange warmth of strangers who quickly become family — it all seeped into my soul.

I remember the first time I drove down South Congress. I didn’t know where I was going, but the neon signs and the scent of coffee and barbecue in the air felt like a welcome. I stumbled into my first open mic night at a dusty little bar on East 6th and sang my heart out to five people and a bartender who clapped like I was famous. That night, I believed I could become anything.

Austin gave me that kind of magic.

I found my best friends here — misfits and dreamers, artists and engineers — who taught me that family isn't always blood. We’d spend summer nights floating the river, laughing at nothing and everything. We’d cry over broken hearts on patios, drink cheap beer under fairy lights, and dance barefoot in living rooms until the sun came up.

I fell in love here too, with someone who saw through the masks I didn’t even know I wore. We built a life out of vinyl records, Sunday mornings, and slow-cooked dinners. And even though that love eventually unraveled, Austin softened the heartbreak. The city held me gently through my grief, as if whispering, “You're not alone.”

Every corner of this town has a memory etched into it — the bookstore on Guadalupe where I spent hours pretending to read just to sit beside them; the trail at Zilker where I ran out my anxiety and ran into new ideas; the porch of our first apartment where we planned a future we’d never have. And now, each of these places feels like a goodbye waiting to be said.

It’s hard to explain why I have to leave. Some stories just reach a natural end. Maybe it’s the job offer in a city that doesn’t know my name yet, or maybe it’s the quiet knowing that I’ve grown as far as I can in this soil. I don’t leave because I stopped loving Austin — I leave because it loved me enough to help me become someone who’s ready for the next chapter.

Still, it hurts.

Tonight, as I watch the sun melt behind the skyline, I let myself cry. I let myself remember everything — the messy, beautiful, imperfect everything. Because Austin deserves that. It deserves to be mourned and celebrated, to be held close even as I let go.

To the people I met here, thank you. For the kindness, the laughter, the shared silences. For reminding me that even when life feels like it’s falling apart, it can be rebuilt — better, truer.

To the city itself, thank you for being patient with me, for pushing me, for giving me space to fail and start over. You were never just a backdrop. You were a character in my story, and perhaps the most important one.

I’ll carry your songs in my heart, your sunsets in my eyes, your wild spirit in my bones.

This isn’t the end. It’s just goodbye, for now.

With love,
Always,
Austin

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