A Place I Didn’t Choose

We came in September.

That matters.

Not summer—when everything pretends to be perfect.

September, when things are already letting go.

Our first place was an apartment on Wayne Road.

I didn’t want to be there.

Not even a little.

My mom was tired of the city—tired in a way that didn’t need explaining. At the time, I was staying with her, so Westland it was, whether I liked it or not.

It felt like a compromise I didn’t ask for. A quiet decision made without my permission. I remember thinking this wasn’t my life—just something temporary I had to get through.

But here’s the thing: I already knew this area.

Before Westland became home, it lived on the edges of my life.

Birthday trips to Fire Mountain on Warren and Wayne.

Livonia Mall runs with my dad.

Value City aisles that felt bigger than they were.

Driving past Churchill High School over and over, that stretch of road signaling we were almost there.

Weekends meant Riverside Arena—cold air, popcorn, time passing differently.

Technically, a lot of that was Livonia. Not Westland. But close enough that the lines blur now.

I’d visited these streets long before I lived on them. So when the move finally happened, it wasn’t entirely unfamiliar. It felt like stepping into the background of an old photograph.

What I didn’t expect was how much life would happen here.

Within that first year, something shifted. The resistance softened. The area started to feel right—not exciting, not cinematic—but steady.

I learned streets without trying. Routines without thinking. Days without bracing myself.

Somewhere between Wayne Road and ordinary errands, I fell in love with a place I never chose—but somehow chose me.

I’ve been here long enough to watch things disappear.

Fire Mountain is gone now.

Panda Buffet too.

Another all-you-can-eat chapter quietly closed.

In their place: a small plaza.

Qdoba.

Tropical Smoothie Café.

New names. New colors. Same patch of ground.

We’ve gotten a new City Hall.

A Five Below.

A Ross.

Go figure.

Not headline changes—but that’s how real time shows up. Not with fireworks, but with storefronts turning over and “coming soon” signs that actually come.

I’ve seen Westland update itself. And I’ve stayed long enough to realize I’ve been updating too.

Entire eras of music live inside this place for me. Songs that instantly pull up a year, a mood, a version of myself.

I remember where I was living when certain albums dropped, when the world shifted, when social scenes changed, when nights felt endless—or strangely quiet.

And then it hits you how long it’s been.

Since 2009.

We’ll keep it at that.

Nearly two decades of becoming, all anchored here.

There’s something grounding about calling one place home through that much change—through who you were, who you thought you’d be, and who you’re still becoming.

When I think about it now, what I appreciate most isn’t just the place itself—it’s the stretch of life that happened here.

Westland didn’t mark my time with grand milestones. It marked it with ordinary days that added up. With streets I learned by heart. With places that came and went. With music, seasons, losses, small joys, and years stacking quietly on top of one another.

I didn’t arrive here knowing I would stay.

I stayed long enough to realize I had.

And somehow, without fanfare, this became home—steady, familiar, and woven into who I am.

That’s not something you plan.

That’s something you grow into.

Nondescript, yet so familiar.

That’s how Westland has always felt to me. It never asked for attention or admiration—it just existed, steady and reliable, while my life unfolded inside it. Years passed quietly here. I grew, resisted, settled, changed. Nothing about this place demanded love, yet it earned it anyway. Westland didn’t announce itself as home. It became home slowly, through repetition, memory, and time—until one day I realized how much of me was shaped by staying.