Springfield, Missouri vs. The Bermuda Triangle: A Comparison You Didn’t Know You Needed

Some places on Earth are shrouded in mystery—zones of vanishing planes, weird time loops, and inescapable traps. Most people think of the Bermuda Triangle. But I’d argue Springfield, Missouri is right up there—except instead of disappearing ships, we’ve got disappearing ambition.

Imagined Ozark Vortex

A Misfit in My Hometown

I grew up in Springfield, which is how I know the struggle. From a young age, I always felt like I was miscast in the role of a small-town kid. As I headed into college life and beyond, I didn’t dream of chain-link fences or Bransonland weekends—I dreamed of escaping. Of salt air and oceans. Of cities where people spoke in accents I didn’t recognize, ate things not served with ranch, and didn’t need a map (now an app) to find something interesting to do.

Honestly, I’ve always had more of a Southern California personality. Chill, but driven. Curious, open-minded. Drawn to the coast and the chaos. I thrive on diverse perspectives, experiences, sunshine, and energy—not snow, tornadoes, or the 37th conversation about which BBQ place is now “actually the best.”

I don’t mean to knock faith, but Springfield’s mega-dose of evangelical Christianity never aligned with me. It has shaped the culture of Springfield in a way that makes anything remotely different feel... suspicious. And with a chain retailer or place of worship on nearly every corner, the city has all the charm of a suburban strip mall. Unless you're in the mood for a sermon or a McChicken, your options are limited.

Oh, and let’s talk about those Stupid Centers. There are five of them. Five! In a town that's barely 83 square miles. These mega-retail monoliths and their membership mothership employ around 6,000 people—making them Springfield’s largest private-sector employer.

Everything you need..., and a lot you do not.

That fact alone might help explain why 19.4% of residents live below the poverty line and why the median household income sits $24,000 below the national average. You don’t need an economics degree to connect those dots.

At one point, I thought I wanted kids. Turns out, I like sleep and freedom more. No regrets. And marriage? Let’s just say if Cindy hadn’t casually lobbied for the government issued paper, I’d still be blissfully dodging registries and rehearsal dinners. So, Springfield’s family-first culture always felt a little smothering. I was looking for a place that celebrated professional growth not just little leagues and cul-de-sac politics. Somewhere with opportunity, not just affordability.

My 48-Hour Rule

I haven’t called Springfield home since 2001—and I’ve made peace with that. After graduating from Drury University, I bolted like someone trying to beat the Battlefield Mall traffic on a Saturday.

I went back to Springfield two years ago for almost a full week. Big mistake. I’ve since set a 48-hour limit for any future visits. Highlights from the trip? Cruising’s back on Kearney Street (because nostalgia), the Regency showcase was revived (because 1997), and downtown was… well, dead (because Springfield). But what really stood out? The homeless population. You used to never see a single person south of Sunshine. Now? They’re everywhere, it was jarring—and sad.

Distraction or Dessert

Still present and accounted for: meth and opioids. They’ve been part of the Springfield starter kit for decades, and if anything, the problem’s only gotten worse. For a city this size, the level of substance abuse is shockingly high. Add to that Springfield’s consistent ranking near the top for property crime and a violent crime rate that outpaces the national average—and suddenly the tourism brochure feels a little dishonest. Perhaps the tourism slogan should be: “Springfield—Come for the cashew chicken, stay because someone stole your car.”

With places of worship on nearly every other corner—seriously, you can’t throw a vape pen without hitting one—you’d think some of that Sunday enthusiasm might spill over into addressing actual community needs. But no, their focus seems to be on louder sound systems, bigger projection screens, and making sure the pastor’s sneakers are fresh out of the box. The gospel of good vibes and building funds continues, while addiction and poverty just keep filling the pews no one wants to talk about.

Once I’d made the rounds—Bass Pro walk-through for the nostalgia, driving past my old neighborhoods to wonder who painted the shutters beige, floating the James River like it was the Colorado, and eating cashew chicken from three different places in a single weekend—I felt that familiar itch to leave.

And leave fast.

Beware the Ozark Vortex

Because Springfield is kind of like the Bermuda Triangle: people go there, and sometimes they just... never leave. Not because they can’t, but because they forget how. They settle in. They buy into the rhythm. They get sucked into this Midwestern vortex of sameness and suddenly, poof, ten years have passed and they’re arguing over where the best frozen custard is instead of chasing the dreams they once had.

So visit. Grab the cashew chicken. Cruise Kearney for old times’ sake. But keep your car close. Pack light. And always—always—have an exit strategy.

Because much like the Bermuda Triangle, once you’re caught in Springfield, escape is not guaranteed.