Growing up in the Chicago suburbs, I couldn’t wait, for a variety of reasons, to leave after high school and never turn back. The chill of both temperature and spirit was not something teenaged me wanted to withstand much longer.

A city girl at heart, I fell hard for San Francisco in my 20s; it seemed like a thawed and sweetened version of Chicago. Urban energy but without that beaten-down edginess that only sub-zero winters can offer, I thought. Marin was not yet on my radar except for the city dweller’s obligatory visits to Sam’s Anchor Cafe in Tiburon.

Part of me feared that crossing the bridge and the county line would land me back in suburbia — not so, I would later find out. I wanted to consider the other obvious choices, heading east or south, but my husband knew better even then.

“Marin is special,” he declared.

Despite the worries about minivans and a lifetime of 5:30 p.m. dinner reservations, I took the Marin plunge.

As the years passed, Marin became, like for many, my adopted home. I would go back to visit family in the Midwest, but I always felt like a visitor, never with any wistful longing of some idyllic days gone by. I imagined this is what growing up was; you leave the past behind, boxed up on a shelf, where it belongs.

You can imagine my surprise when, fast forward a few decades, my Marin-born and -bred college-aged son and his childhood friends continuously talk about Marin with their new college buddies. They bore classmates from faraway places with their tales; “Remember sunrise at Rodeo Beach? Or the old skateboard park behind Proof Lab?” They speak with such a nostalgic love in their voice, even though they have barely left. In their minds, everyone knows how special Marin is, and if they don’t, they better come visit.

It occurred to me that they were right; everyone should know — or visit. The love of a place, not unlike any other love, follows a similar trajectory. At first, you’re starry-eyed and overjoyed, only seeing your beloved in the most positive light. The views! The bridge! The outdoors! Everything is charming, sweet and perfect. Problems? What problems? And then the years pass, and, like any relationship, you get comfortable and complacent, not to mention critical and annoyed. The traffic! The taxes! The power outages! It’s too hot/too cold/too rainy! The days become a barrage of grumblings, and you lose sight of that place you fell in love with.

It took my kid’s innocent, matter-of-fact praise to remind me of all that this tiny county has been and continues to be for those of us lucky enough to call it home.

The joy of watching my kids grow up at the one-of-a-kind Joe Wag field, with a “practically free” snow cone in hand. The ability to walk 119 steps from my front door and be completely alone in nature, among the eucalyptus and my own thoughts. Where else can coyotes and mountain lions be just a 15-minute drive from one of 39 Michelin star restaurants?

The small-town sweetness as you hit Larkspur’s Magnolia Avenue for the Fourth of July parade, even when my kids are now taller than the floats themselves. I know that I will run into at least two old friends just by chance.

Marin, fourth from the bottom in California county size, packs so much in such a tiny space. Just think of our towns and cities — Sausalito, Novato and Fairfax, for example — all with wildly different temperatures, flavors and vibes.

So, dear county, forgive me that I forgot how special you are. I took you for granted. It happens. As someone who has been fortunate enough to see many spectacular parts of our world, I know that at the end of a great trip elsewhere, I’m never too sad to leave.

At the first sight of our big orange vermilion bridge, I know that I’m back home. Lucky me.

Arbella O. Parrot is a Marin clinical psychologist. IJ readers are invited to share their stories of love, dating, parenting, marriage, friendship and other experiences for our How It Is column, which runs Tuesdays in the Lifestyles section. All stories must not have been published in part or in its entirety previously. Send your stories of no more than 600 words to lifestyles@marinij.com. Please write How It Is in the subject line. The IJ reserves the right to edit them for publication. Please include your full name, address and a daytime phone number.