There's a good bit of Goodheart's "Somewhere people vs. Anywhere people" in there. https://thinktheology.co.uk/blog/article/anywheres_and_somewheres His perspective is British, but it's definitely applicable here:
In a lot of ways, my original post and what I (and my daughter) wrestle with is that we don't fit neatly into either paradigm. We're facially "Anywhere" people, but we are deeply tied to our place of origin. We're acutely aware of how it shaped and formed us, and how it will always define us, and that those things can be good. It's actually a challenging dichotomy to live with. I am deeply loyal to, and aware of my ties to, "place." But I am also global in my perspective, and ultimately can see myself living in any number of places. I like people, I will make community where I am. But I will always be a son of Texas. Always.
You're correct - what people are moving to isn't "here be dragons" country, but going someplace that is not home, is far away from what you know and your support systems, is deeply scary, because we are creatures of the familiar. And for those left behind, it's hard as well. It's been that way for immigrants forever. It's pretty intimidating to think back on my relatives who got on a boat from Spain in 1780 to head to Mexico, never to return. Or my wife's family, leaving Scotland in the 1850s to make their lives in the US. Leaving your family, and your native land, behind to launch a life in "the new world" -- what an amazing, terrifying thing.
I've posted it around here before, but I think the song Kilkelly, Ireland is incredibly beautiful and powerful. It's a series of verses that are based on letters from a father left behind in Ireland, writing to his son who has gone to America to find his future.
Most of the verses end with his father saying "we hope you'll come home to visit," or "we hope you'll be coming home soon." Until the last verse, which is a letter written by his brother:
Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 92, my dear brother John
I'm sorry that I didn't write sooner to tell you that father passed on.
He was living with Brigid, she says he was cheerful
And healthy right down to the end.
Ah, you should have seen him play with
The grandchildren of Pat McNamara, your friend.
And we buried him alongside of mother,
Down at the Kilkelly churchyard.
He was a strong and a feisty old man,
Considering his life was so hard.
And it's funny the way he kept talking about you,
He called for you in the end.
Oh, why don't you think about coming to visit,
We'd all love to see you again.
That last verse absolutely. Fucking. Breaks me. Every goddamned time. Leaving all that you've known, all that's familiar and secure. It takes courage. And it creates separation. You leave so much behind. And there are those who are left behind, and what they feel as well. They will still "call for you in the end," across oceans.
My daughter was messaging us earlier. She's definitely in that "I'm sad, weirdly homesick, afraid, and alone...but I'm stuck and can't go back" phase of the move. She's felt this each move she's made before, and she knows how it goes, and that she'll adjust quickly and thrive wherever she is (she is already a "native soul" of Montreal and Gothenburg, for example). But the emotions are human, they are there, and they are consistent. She'll be okay. I hope, and strongly suspect, that she will find a way to thrive, and launch herself. As we all must, someday.
We are made to be together. We are made to be in close-knit communities. But we are also made to walk over that horizon, into something new and frightening. The same thing can be both beautiful and terrifying. Hell, life is both of those things across the board.