The Price of Belonging

When Your Hometown Doesn’t Feel Like Home Anymore

by LONNIE KING

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Some songs hit you harder than others—not because they’re catchier or more poetic, but because they echo something you’re already feeling, just beneath the surface.

If you know me at all, you know that when I’m driving around and just listening to music, it’s probably going to be one of three artists: Bruce Springsteen, the Doobie Brothers, or Chicago. This time, it was Springsteen.

I had “My Hometown” playing, and it stopped me in my tracks. It’s not one of his most hopeful tracks. In fact, it’s unusually melancholy, even for someone known for writing about working-class struggle and small-town heartache. But it was the final verse that hit me in the gut:

Last night me and Kate, we laid in bed / Talking ’bout getting out
Packing up our bags / Maybe heading south…

The line is so quiet, so matter-of-fact. No big speech. No grand escape. Just a late-night conversation between two people trying to decide if it’s time to let go of the place they’ve always called home.

And it hit home with me—because, for the first time in our adult lives, my wife and have had that exact conversation.

A Pride That Once Anchored Us

We’ve been together 38 years. And for most of those years, we’ve been proud to call Texas our home. That wasn’t just a zip code. It was an identity.

There’s a certain pride that comes with being a Texan. It’s not always easy to explain to outsiders—it’s cultural, it’s historical, it’s generational. There’s pride in our stubbornness, our independence, our deep roots. There’s pride in the land, the music, the food, the stories we grew up with. It wasn’t performative; it was personal.

And speaking of music, I don’t just rotate through Springsteen, the Doobie Brothers, and Chicago. Plenty of times, I’ll have nothing but Texas roots music playing—Jerry Jeff Walker, Ray Wylie Hubbard, Delbert McClinton, Kevin Fowler, the Randy Rogers Band, even the 13th Floor Elevators if I’m feeling nostalgic or a little off-center.

Talk about Texas pride—there was a stretch of my life where I’d drive around blasting Hubbard’s, “Screw You, We’re From Texas” on my car stereo.

It was a tongue-in-cheek anthem, sure, but it captured a real sentiment: this place is different, and we love it that way.

For a long time, it felt like Texas was a superlative state—a notch above the rest.

Now? It doesn’t feel that way anymore.

Being a Texan used to be a point of connection. It was something that anchored us. Gave us belonging.

But lately, it’s started to feel like something we have to untangle ourselves from.

The Shift You Can’t Unsee

What’s changed? For us, it’s not the economy. It’s not the cost of living. It’s not the traffic or the heat—though all of those are real.

• It’s the politics.
• It’s the tone.
• It’s the culture of cruelty that’s crept into daily life.

Over the last several years, we’ve watched the right-wing political machine tighten its grip on the state. We’ve seen policies passed that marginalize the vulnerable, suppress the vote, whitewash history, and distort faith. We’ve seen leaders who value power over people, soundbites over solutions, loyalty tests over basic human dignity.

And yes, much of that, in our view, can be traced to the rise and influence of Donald Trump—who didn’t invent these problems but certainly emboldened and amplified them.

It’s made us feel like strangers in a place we used to call home.

The Price of Belonging

Springsteen once described “My Hometown” as a song about “the price of belonging.”

That phrase has been ringing in my ears ever since.

Because belonging sounds like a good thing—until the cost becomes too high. Until belonging means being quiet about injustice. Until belonging means pretending that cruelty is just “tough love.” Until belonging requires shrinking yourself to fit someone else’s version of what it means to be a “real” Texan, or a “true” American.

We tolerated it for a long time—because that’s the price of belonging. But at some point, you start asking if the cost is worth it.

Laying in Bed, Talking About Leaving

We haven’t made any decisions. But we’ve had the conversations. Late at night. Lying in bed. Whispering things like:

“Could we really leave?”
“Where would we even go?”
“Would we be running away… or finally breathing again?”

The honest truth is, we probably won’t go anywhere. At this stage in our lives, we’re likely too deeply rooted—relationally, emotionally, logistically—to pull up stakes and start over somewhere new.

And while I still think about it, and there are days when I’d love nothing more than to pack up and go, I also recognize that change on that scale may not be realistic for us.

But, I find it disappointing that it’s even something we have even considered. And, at the same time, just because we may not be able to change our own setting doesn’t mean I don’t want something different for my kids.

If a couple of them weren’t already living out of state, I’d probably be encouraging them to get out now—while they’re still young enough to choose a place where they can fully belong. And if they’re already gone, I want them to think carefully before coming back.

Because it’s not just about where you live. It’s about where you can live fully. With integrity. With peace. With hope.

You’re Not Alone

I know we’re not the only ones having these conversations.

There are countless others who feel the same quiet ache—the same mourning for the place they once loved. People who raised their families here, built careers here, gave back to their communities… only to feel slowly pushed to the margins by a culture that now feels alien and aggressive.

This post isn’t a political statement. It’s a human one.

It’s about grief. About change. About letting go of what used to feel like forever.

Because sometimes belonging costs too much.

And the hardest part isn’t the decision to leave. It’s accepting that you no longer feel welcome in the place that raised you.

In the final verse of “My Hometown,” Springsteen brings it full circle: a father placing his son behind the wheel, just like his father did before him, and saying, “Take a good look around. This is your hometown.”

But, what might have once been a blessing now sounds almost like an apology.

And that’s what weighs on me the most. I never want to look at my children and feel the need to apologize for where they were born—or what their hometown has become.

I want them to be proud of where they came from.

But more than that, I want them to feel free to go find a place where they can belong—without regret, and without having to pay the price for someone else’s definition of home.

Grace and grit to you! — LK