In a week, my little family will begin our annual pilgrimage to Nova Scotia. It’s a long drive, and with Charlie now, I’m imagining it’s going to take even longer, as we inevitably stop and entertain him at various points along the way.

These trips are always a little bittersweet.

If you’re from the East Coast, and you live away, you understand what I mean. It’s wonderful to get home and see friends and family, and slip into the salt air for a while. The scenery is both haunting and welcoming, the lack of humidity is refreshing.

The thing is, I don’t feel like there’s a place for my family there. And I’m not alone.

My husband and I are both well-educated, with good jobs that we both work very hard at. We’ve excelled and thrived post university and found places in our preferred professions. Good places. We’ve both been able to advance to great positions where we feel challenged. We own a house in one of Canada’s toughest markets to get into. We have minimal debt. We’re well traveled. We’re involved in our community.

We’re part of a generation that’s left the province in a sort of mass exodus, the likes of which will have long lasting repercussions in the region.

We’re part of the problem.

It’s a circular problem; lack of opportunities for young people have created a diaspora of sorts, which has left few behind to become established and create opportunities for later generations. The population decline means diminished resources, funding, and a lack of representation and influence for the region.

When we graduated university, the writing was on the wall. We left for Japan after our undergraduate degrees, and knew it was highly unlikely that we’d ever be back full time. It wasn’t because we wanted to leave particularly; we loved and do love Halifax, and probably could have easily enjoyed living there (we’re fairly urban people). It was because we knew that with the amount of student debt that we were both carrying, coupled with the lack of opportunities for people with undergraduate degrees, we’d both be screwed for a long time. At 23, we didn’t have the capital to invest in a home, or a business, and were staring down a minimum wage job, or a graduate degree that, if we’re being honest, didn’t guarantee us any more opportunities than the first degree did.

We’re not alone. I scroll through the people I went to high school and university with on my Facebook feed, and more left than stayed. Some that stayed or returned are Western Canada widows, or underemployed, or struggling to find the same types of opportunities Matt and I have, almost ten years after graduating. Anyone that’s from the East Coast knows the pull you feel when you’re away. So many of us go to great lengths to get back whenever we can, even though it’s expensive and time consuming to get there. We’re everywhere; you can hardly throw a stone in most Canadian cities without hitting a Maritime expat.

When I was young, I devoured Helen Creighton’s Bluenose Ghosts, which, if you haven’t read it, is a most incredible collection of ghost stories from the region, collected by Creighton over almost 30 years. Without her, these stories would be lost to time. I’ve been thinking a lot about this concept, as I start to get ready to make the long drive next week, and I’d like to put a collection of stories together, from people from my generation that have stayed, left, and returned.

I’d like to hear from you if you are:

 – A Maritimer between 25 and 40

 – Interested in writing or working with me to write 2500-3000 words detailing your history and experiences with the region.

 – Interested in helping with the production of such a volume.

I think our stories are important. I hope you do too. You can contact me via Facebook, or in a blog comment below if this is something you’d be interested in participating in.

Thank you!