Returning to a place after twenty years is quietly disorienting.
Nothing is quite the same—and yet everything is familiar enough to awaken a version of yourself you thought you had outgrown.
And then, suddenly, you realize:
You haven’t returned to the place.
You’ve returned to yourself.
Edinburgh Last Week
Over two decades ago, relatively newly married and blissfully unencumbered, I accompanied my husband on a trip to Edinburgh—in July, when the city is at its most forgiving. Otherwise, the weather here seems to cycle through rain, sun, wind, and cold within minutes—still not as whimsical as in the Scottish Highlands, but up there in terms of idiosyncrasy.
We stayed in Grassmarket—full of character and pubs—with Edinburgh Castle watching over us. I could see it from our hotel window.
For years, I couldn’t remember the name of that hotel.
Until last week, when our taxi turned the corner—and something in me reacted before I could think.
“Apex,” I said out loud.
As if the memory had been waiting—not forgotten, just unneeded until now.
Memory, it seems, arrives when it pleases—as if some part of us has been keeping watch all along.
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Edinburgh Then and Now
I spent an afternoon last week walking alone through the area while Sahil and Sri did their own thing—retracing steps I once took, and noticing what had quietly shifted.
I passed The Last Drop—where I once had lunch while Sri attended his conference.
And The Witchery by the Castle—where his colleagues treated us to a meal that felt far too adventurous back then (quail eggs, pheasant… my stomach churned).
Today, I noticed vegetarian options at the Witchery. Even a vegan dish. And the word bhaji is on the menu.
It started raining all of a sudden as I stood outside gazing at the menu—a little love from the monsoons of India?
The menu had changed.
But so had I.
And for the first time, I couldn’t tell which mattered more.
What We Carry Forward
I wandered into a secondhand bookstore and spent an hour browsing—only to walk out with three books…all for Sahil.
Twenty years ago, I bought myself a couple of books from the Malory Towers and St. Clare’s series by Enid Blyton, when her legacy felt uncomplicated.
Today, I bought something for my son.
Not because I need less, but because I have become someone who carries more.
Not Quite Alone
After wandering, three books, and a load of nostalgia later, I sat down at a café and began WhatsApping my girlfriends back in the U.S.
I stared at the Edinburgh Castle in front of me, the roads sleek and wet from a quick downpour. I settled more comfortably in my high-backed chair.
Some of my girlfriends had been to Edinburgh too—one even on her first solo trip.
“I want to do one,” I typed back.
And just like that, we slipped into memory—university days, children’s graduations, vacations, milestones, nostalgia layered upon nostalgia.
Twenty years ago, I sat here alone, waiting.
Today, I sat alone again—but not quite.
There was comfort in this new layer of life—a circle of women, midlife, steady, and deeply supportive.
As if, somewhere along the way, life had quietly gathered itself around me.
And in that gathering, I felt quieter too.
And suddenly, the solitude felt different.
Not empty—but connected.
Choosing the Present
In the end, I chose the ordinary moment—a coffee with my husband, a warm baked potato, Edinburgh Castle in view.
To talk. To remember. To laugh.
Because perhaps we don’t return to places at all. We return to the selves we once were— and quietly take measure of who we have become. And somewhere between the two, we recognize ourselves again.
This, I realize, is what I’ve been writing toward in Imperfectly Perfect—
not the places themselves, but the selves we meet along the way.
Meaningfully yours,
Anu Prabhala
If this brought back a place—or a version of yourself—you might want to share it with someone who was part of that journey.
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