This First Person column is written by Estefania De La Concha, who lives in Montreal. For more information about First Person stories, see the FAQ.
When I first arrived in Montreal in February 2016, straight from the tropical heat of Venezuela, I was in awe of the city lights on the ride from the airport to my cousin’s place, where I’d spend my first few nights. I was mesmerized by the beauty of the buildings and excited about the life I was about to build.
For nine years, Montreal was where I rooted myself. I travelled outside of the city, but I always looked forward to coming back. I’d feel a rush of emotion every time I passed the Jacques Cartier Bridge and glimpsed La Ronde or the Olympic Stadium from the bus or car window, thinking, “Yes, this is home.”
Throughout this time, I was enriched by the presence of many cultures. I partied, tried foods I didn’t know existed, made lifelong friends, expanded my horizons and hiked Mount Royal more times than I could count. For years, I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, and I was the one wondering why anyone would ever want to leave.
Then came the pandemic, and the excitement of urban life faded. I couldn’t enjoy it as I used to, so, like many others, I turned to nature to keep my sanity. Every weekend meant escaping Montreal to discover new hiking trails, cross-country skiing, ice skating and paddle boarding. I’d do anything to be outside, in nature, moving and breathing.
What started as a coping mechanism quietly became an essential part of my identity and my sense of belonging.
Ever since returning to “normal” in 2023, the city I once loved has constantly reminded me that my soul is craving something different. I feel the heavy weight of concrete on my shoulders — the noise, the traffic, the chaos, the endless construction and a growing sense of insecurity that wasn’t there when I arrived. I still remember walking home alone at 3 a.m. through the Plateau Mont-Royal after a night out, feeling lucky to live in a city where a woman could do that safely. Now, even in daylight, I move with more caution — a habit I thought I’d left behind.
It’s like living in a constant state of overstimulation: crowded streets, rushing strangers, everyone moving fast to get somewhere that seems important but probably isn’t.
Even the escapes that once recharged me have started to feel more like a burden. On Saturday mornings, it often takes over an hour to get out of Montreal and then another hour or two on the highway before I can even begin my hike. I’ve explored almost every trail in and around the city. I know the familiar climbs and the lookout points by heart. I’m grateful for them, but I’m also ready for something new, and I crave the spontaneity that doesn’t require four-hour round trips.
Now, after years of watching prices rise and apartments shrink, the idea of living somewhere with more space, less financial pressure and easier access to nature feels like a relief.
In a few weeks’ time, I’ll be moving to Sherbrooke in Quebec’s Eastern Townships, a place where trailheads begin just minutes from home, and bike paths run along the Magog and Saint-François rivers.
When I tell people I’m leaving, their reactions are often laced with concern or skepticism.
“You’ll regret it.” “Why Sherbrooke? There’s nothing there.” These are the most common reactions. Once, a friend laughed and said, “If nobody outside Canada knows Sherbrooke, is it even a city?” It was meant as a joke — but beneath the laughter was a strong statement rooted in a worldview that perceives fast-paced urban life as inherently more valuable than a quieter, slower one with deeper roots and more space to breathe.
I don’t blame them. Like many others, I grew up in a society that taught me success meant chasing big cities and striving for more — more money, recognition and shiny things. I know their reactions come from a place of care, but they often reveal more about their fears than my decision. It’s not really about Sherbrooke. It’s about what leaving the city represents: the possibility that a different life might be just as valid.
Montreal once felt like everything I had hoped for: a safe place to rebuild my life, far from the instability I had experienced in my homeland, and alongside family members already established here. And for nearly a decade, the city gave me everything I needed. It allowed me to immerse myself in a diverse, dynamic world. I felt connected, alive and full of potential. But over time, my needs shifted.
Part of me already misses it, even though I haven’t left yet. I find myself walking familiar streets, savouring everyday scenes, knowing they might not be mine much longer. Nostalgia came as an unexpected guest, not because I doubt my decision, but because goodbyes are never that simple.
Choosing to leave isn’t about rejecting Montreal or choosing Sherbrooke; it’s about honouring who I am today, recognizing that I’ve grown and trusting that it’s OK to want something different now — even if someday, life calls me back.
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