I moved to a big city at 51 to be closer to my 2 sons. I almost instantly regretted it and left a year later.

It hit me on the seven-hour drive. The punch to the gut, the weight of the wrongness of it all.

I was on my way to a new apartment in a new city to be closer to two of my four sons, where I’d be just a 10-minute drive away from both.

The new place had everything I thought I wanted: a dishwasher, garbage chute, high ceilings, fast wifi, a little balcony and dining nook, and an app where I could press a button and summon a person if the washer or dryer broke.

I wasn’t moving for the apartment, though. The lease in my hometown was coming to an end, so the time felt right for a move. However, the only reason I chose to leave my small town of 20,000 for Ottawa, Ontario, with 1 million people, was to be closer to my sons, who were 23 and 24 at the time.

My kids have always been my choice over dating, a career, and a marriage that left our little family hobbled but closer in the end. Why would they not be my choice now? My friends back home were fine, I told myself, but they weren’t my sons, whom I raised to be my best friends.

I also thought they might need me since they were still at a young enough age where having a mom close by could help.

Really, though, I just wanted to be the kind of mom who could have a pot roast dinner with them on a Sunday and be part of their daily lives. I missed being part of their daily lives.

The move was scary but I told myself it was right, even though it felt off

I told myself this move was the smart thing to do, the right thing. Scary? Sure.

Trying to make a new life at 51 — when you’re too old to make the young parent friends, but too young to make retirement-age friends — is intimidating. I knew in my bones that it wouldn’t work, but I tried anyway.

I went to swing dancing classes in a church basement on Friday nights. I joined a gym, a women’s dinner club, a regular yoga class. I played pickleball in the park. I taught writing classes at the local university. I shopped, and shopped, and shopped, an old thumb-sucker habit of mine when I’m feeling stuck.

I spoke to people all the time, and I listened to their stories, but I felt like none of us were ever having a conversation. We just volleyed questions back and forth.

It was the same with my two sons, who were grown men now. They made time for me and helped around the house, like hanging pictures and putting my bed together. However, then they’d go back to their own homes to their own lives, and I would be alone again.

Sometimes, I’d drop by unexpectedly for a visit, for a chat, for company, because I wasn’t finding my own life here. I knew, though, that I was just adding myself onto their lives, not integrating seamlessly.

I wasn’t myself here — I knew that, and so did they. Back home, I was the mom who had friends, went for hikes, and knew everyone at the farmer’s market. I felt like this new mom was too needy for us all, especially me.

I moved back to my little town after 1 year in the big city

We all agreed that I had tried my best, but it just wasn’t the right fit.

This time, driving back in my Nissan Versa, everything felt exactly right.

Later, we planned a trip for that summer. We got the entire family together for a week at the beach, where everything felt natural and balanced.

We could all just be adults together, swimming and eating, and playing cards. I felt glad for our time together, grateful for who we’ve become.

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