Moving back to the suburbs at 40 to be near family

This is a composite story, drawn from common experiences shared in the schizophrenia community. It does not depict a real individual.

I am 40 years old. I am a man. I lived in Brooklyn from age 25 to age 40 — fourteen years, in a string of apartments that got smaller and farther from the train each time. Last November I moved back to the suburb where I grew up in northern New Jersey. I now live twenty minutes from my parents and six minutes from my older sister. I want to write about why I made the move and what it has been like, because moving back to the suburbs at 40 has a particular shame attached to it that I had to work through.

The Brooklyn years

I was diagnosed with schizophrenia at 28. I had been in Brooklyn for three years at that point, working in publishing, sharing a fourth-floor walk-up with a roommate. My first hospitalisation was at Methodist; my second was at NYU. By 33 I had stabilised on a long-acting injection and a steady regimen of weekly therapy. I kept working. I kept living in Brooklyn.

Brooklyn was good for me in many ways. The anonymity of a big city is real. No one on my block needed to know I had a diagnosis. The variety of psychiatrists, therapists, and clinics meant I could find good care without much travel. The proximity of friends in their twenties and thirties meant I always had someone to call.

It was also hard in ways that compounded over time. Rent ate a punishing share of my income, especially after I had to drop to part-time for two years post-diagnosis. The constant background noise — sirens, construction, neighbours — made the kind of sleep I needed for stability harder than it should have been. The walk-up apartments meant that on bad days, going out for groceries felt like climbing a mountain. The friends I had at 25 mostly moved away by 35; by 40 my regular dinner table had thinned to two or three people, all of whom were also exhausted.

What started the conversation

A bad winter. In January 2025 I had a wobble — three weeks of poor sleep, a faint return of voices, a panicky few days where I called my therapist twice between sessions. My parents, who had been visiting more frequently as they aged, drove in for a weekend. My mother sat on my couch in my one-bedroom in Crown Heights and said, very gently, "What if you came home for a while?"

I said no. I said it firmly. The idea of moving back to the suburbs at 40 felt like a verdict on my whole adult life. I had built a person in Brooklyn. Moving back felt like dismantling him.

But the conversation kept circling back through the spring. My older sister had her second child in March and asked if I would be a more present uncle. My father had a small heart procedure in April that scared me more than I admitted. My therapist asked, in a session in May, what I was actually losing by staying — and what I was gaining.

The math, when I let myself do it

I did the math in June. I did it on paper this time, not in my head, because in my head it always came out tilted toward staying. On paper:

• My rent in Brooklyn was about half my take-home pay. The same housing dollar in my hometown bought a one-bedroom rental with a backyard.
• My parents were 67 and 70. Their next ten years were going to require my presence more, not less. Driving in from Brooklyn was a six-hour round trip on a good day.
• My nephew was eight. My niece was six. The new baby was three months. I had been at maybe a fifth of their birthdays.
• My therapist could see me by telehealth across state lines. My psychiatrist could not, but New Jersey had clinicians and I could find one.
• The friends I had left in Brooklyn would still be there for visits. They were also, several of them, quietly thinking about leaving themselves.

The numbers said move. The story in my head still said no. The story took longer to shift than the numbers did.

What I had to grieve

I had to grieve the version of myself who lived in a big city and was not visibly someone with a chronic illness. I had to grieve the bagels I liked, the coffee shop where the barista knew my order, the sound of the M train, the friend I would walk to the park with on Sunday mornings. I had to grieve a self-image of "person who made it out" that I had carried since I left high school.

I also had to grieve a particular kind of loneliness I had grown comfortable in. Brooklyn had made it possible to be alone in a crowd. The suburb would force me to be alone alone, with my family close by, which is a different texture of solitude.

Six months in

I have been here since November. I rent a small one-bedroom in a converted house on a quiet street. My parents come over for coffee on Saturday mornings. My sister and I have a standing Tuesday-night dinner with the kids. I see the baby every week.

My sleep is better than it has been in fifteen years. I had not realised, until I moved, how much background noise I had been metabolising as anxiety. I cook more. I walk in the park near my apartment. I read more. My new psychiatrist is competent and kind and four miles from my apartment, with parking. My weekly therapist is the same one I had in Brooklyn, by video.

The hard parts are real. I am, on some days, lonely in a way that Brooklyn anonymity used to mask. I had to find a new dentist, a new pharmacy, a new haircut place. The local NAMI chapter is much smaller than the one I attended in the city. I miss being able to walk to a movie at 9 p.m. on a Tuesday.

What I would tell someone considering the same move

• The shame is real and worth naming. You are not failing. You are choosing a different ratio of independence and support.
• Do the math on paper. Rent, sleep, family proximity, clinical care access. Numbers are more honest than narrative.
• Find your psychiatrist before you move. Continuity of medication is non-negotiable. Make the first appointment for week two of being there.
• Do not rebuild your social life on family alone. Find one outside group — NAMI, a class, a gym, a religious community. Your siblings are not a substitute for friends.
• Visit the city you left. Keep your old friends in your life. Moving home does not mean amputating your old self.

For related reading, see moving out of my parents' house and when an adult child moves home.

This article is for educational purposes only and is not medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always consult a qualified mental health professional. If you or someone you know is in crisis, call or text 988 in the US, or your local emergency number.