When I first moved to Seattle in 2008, I was warned off Aurora Avenue in all the ways you’d expect. It’s riddled with prostitution, drugs, and crime, a lifelong Seattleite told me. Avoid it at all costs, especially at night, another one said. During an early home search, my real estate agent pulled into the driveway of a townhouse four lots down from 99, turned to me in the back seat, and said, “My professional advice is to not even look at this one.” We didn’t get out of the car.

Eventually, I became the local cautioning others. Over pints at Naked City Brewery several years later, I scanned home listings with friends considering a move from Cincinnati. One property a block away from Aurora’s thoroughfare got flagged as too close to a “not-so-great” area. They asked for some details, and I didn’t sugarcoat it.

Recalling all of this now makes me cringe. It’s kind of like reviewing your angsty teenage years from the wiser, world-worn lens of parenthood—you realize you had no fucking clue.

Transplants learn about Aurora Avenue’s reputation through osmosis: well-meaning friends and salacious KOMO news segments. And, sure, there’s some truth behind the bad rap. I’ve seen sidewalk fist fights and people in the midst of mental health crises, public urination and homelessness, sex workers and drug use. According to the Seattle Police Department, the state route remains one of the city’s crime hot spots. I used to suck in a breath whenever I hit the red light next to Sugar’s Cabaret, hopeful my curious six-year-old in the back wouldn’t ask me about what she saw flashing across the video screen out front.

That curious six-year-old is who helped shift my view of Aurora. Her old day care—the one her younger sister still goes to—is just a few blocks away. Every weekday morning, I drive down the street I once cautioned others to avoid.

Mornings with my kids are precious. In the chaos of hurried breakfasts and missing socks, the time I spend ferrying them to school and daycare before I merge into the mess of I-5 is sometimes the only chance I have to really talk with them before we each dive into our days. Aurora Avenue has been the backdrop for some of my most cherished mother-daughter chats. There’s something to be said about irony here.

My oldest and I used to play a three-year-old’s version of hide-and-seek where she’d cover her eyes and I’d have to feign a search in the car, both of us still very much buckled into our seats. She’d always give an excited little wiggle, waiting to reach “Sleeping Beauty Street” before we initiated the game.

Now when I think of Aurora Avenue, I think of the place where my firstborn tested out her newfound reading skills (“Mama, does that sign say ‘Car Toys?’”) and where she still likes to play I Spy. Where, piqued by her view out the window, we’ve embarked on conversations about homelessness and privilege and mental illness. I think about going to the gym after putting the kids to bed and grabbing a basket of 50-cent Korean chicken wings with my husband every Wednesday. I think about shopping for longanisa and shredded pork buns, picking up bubble tea and coffee. The street that I was warned off of is now where my life happens.

For all its faults and hard reputation, Aurora Avenue is only a street. It’s where people shop, eat, sleep, and make their livelihood—where, like any other place, some struggle and others help them out. It’s a place to grow up, in more ways than one. I just needed a nudge to help see the beauty in it.