The song, “You’re Gonna Go Far” was my introduction to Noah Kahan. As the oldest of four children about to fly 2,500 miles away to attend university in a different country after living in a small town my entire life, I guess you could say I felt a pretty powerful connection to this song.
I hated high school. By the end of my junior year, I knew I was ready to leave my town. I was ready to escape the same cliques of people I had been surrounded by since elementary school. I was ready to start over, to reinvent and reintroduce myself. I was ready to go far.
Senior year was long, in every possible meaning of that word. It felt like the longest year of my life. Tired eyes and a burnt out brain, my entire being was worn out beyond repair. I could not wait for the next year of my life. I knew I was destined to leave California, but not a single part of my mind thought I would have ended up in Montreal.
It makes me smile to know when things get hard / You’ll be far, you’ll be far from here
One of my biggest fears regarding leaving home was the prospect of leaving my siblings behind. Despite my overwhelming urge to begin the next chapter of my life, I felt far from ready to part ways with the three people who, in many ways, felt like different versions of myself. As different as we are from one another, they are the only people who experienced the exact same upbringing to me. We have a type of shared experience that allows for an almost telepathic form of communication. I feel absolutely no need to explain anything and it is as if they each encompass a part of me.
So, pack up your car, put a hand to your heart / Say whatever you feel, be wherever you are / We ain’t angry at you love, you’re the greatest thing we’ve lost
There are so many things I adore about being the oldest sibling, but the oldest child guilt which accompanies this role is not one of them. The worry of being selfish for leaving is a constant fear that loves to persist in my mind like a pestering fly that won’t leave me be. After a lifetime of trailblazing an uncertain path for the rest of my siblings, it doesn’t sit well with me to get up and leave. To pass that role onto my sister, for her to take over. It feels as if the world will stop as soon as I abandon this role I have prided myself in for so long.
The birds’ll still sing, your folks’ll still fight / The boards’ll still creak, the leaves will still die
The emphasis on continuation Kahan highlights in the chorus is such an important part of my connection to this song. He explains how life keeps going, even after one’s absence. While being this trailblazing figure was such a crucial part of my identity in the eighteen years I lived in that house, it is not as if my role of “oldest sister” is going to disappear. I will forever be the oldest child in my family, but the rest of the world won’t stop when I leave. Change is inevitable and essential for growth – especially my own.
And we’ll all be here forever
With this lingering desire to hold this part of my identity close to my heart, Kahan reminds his audience that it will never go away. And, it is okay for one’s connection to this identity to change. My San Francisco home will always be there for me to come back to, but this next part of my life will take place in Montreal.