Documenting My Past In Stamford, New York: Exploring Childhood Memories

I arrived in Stamford, New York, mid-afternoon after a long, reflective drive from Vermont. The Catskills welcomed me back like an old friend—though, in truth, they feel more like a shadow of one now. It’s remarkable how everything changes when you’re away for years. The subtle shifts in the landscape, the gradual changes in people and places—they hit harder when you return after a long absence. Had I stayed, these changes might have been barely noticeable, part of the daily ebb and flow of life, but after being away for so long, they stand out like bright, glaring reminders of the passage of time.

The old firehouse, where I began as an explorer at 16, looks almost the same, but there’s a difference in the air—an absence of the people I once knew, the routines we followed. The sense of community that once thrived there feels quieter now. It’s not that the town has lost its charm, but there’s an undeniable shift. Time moves differently when you’re not there to witness its slow erosion. The firehouse used to be a second home to me—its rhythm was familiar, its walls a part of me. Now, it feels like I’m looking at it from a distance, even while standing right in front of it.

I imagine that if I’d stayed, if I had never left, these changes would have felt natural, even comforting, or perhaps barely perceptible. Instead, returning after years away feels like I’ve stepped into an alternate version of the world I knew. The streets are still the same, but the small businesses have changed hands, the people walking around seem unfamiliar. The diner I used to hang out with friends in is still standing, but the menu’s different, the faces behind the counter are new, and even the conversations feel foreign. It’s disorienting, like waking up from a long dream only to find everything just slightly off-kilter.

Perhaps what’s most striking is how much I’ve changed in the years I’ve been away. It’s not just Stamford that feels different—it’s me as well. I left this place as a young woman, eager to carve out a life for myself, and now, coming back, I see things through the lens of all I’ve experienced since then. The firehouse that once felt so monumental in shaping me is now just one chapter in a much larger story. It’s humbling, in a way, to realize how much growth happens when you’re not paying attention.

Luke, the filmmaker I came here to meet, picked up on this right away during last nights phone call. As we discussed potential ideas for the project, he commented on how I seemed both connected to this place and distanced from it. I suppose that’s the crux of it. Stamford was such a critical part of my past, but the years have created a gap between who I was then and who I am now. It’s a strange kind of dissonance—seeing a place so deeply tied to my identity, yet feeling like a visitor in it.

Everything changes, and not just on the surface. It’s the accumulation of small, almost imperceptible shifts that create a gulf between the past and the present. If I’d stayed, I might have adapted to those changes seamlessly, perhaps even welcomed them. But coming back after so much time has passed makes them stand out in a way that feels almost jarring. Stamford is still Stamford, but it’s not quite the same Stamford I left behind. And I suppose I’m not quite the same person who left, either.

September 13, 2024