Last weekend, I returned to my hometown of Baie-Comeau, Quebec, for the first time in 31 years. We moved away when I was 10, and except for one brief visit at 16, I never went back.

My childhood there was a mix of wonder and shadow. I remembered the forest behind our house, magical and alive, where I felt connected to my soul. I also remembered places of pain, marked by trauma. Beyond those fragments, most of my memories were blurry.

I wasn’t sure the land of your birth really calls you home. I had never felt that pull—until now. Now that I long for roots, a place to anchor more deeply than ever before.

Crossing on the ferry from Matane, the salty wind on my face, I couldn’t look away as the shoreline came into view. My eyes didn’t recognize the landmarks, but my body did. Tears streamed down my face as my chest tightened with recognition. It felt like an ancient part of me was awakening.

That first night, we ate at the Manoir Hotel overlooking the wide Saint Lawrence. The horizon ...