Traveling has made me realize that home is not something we are born into – it is something we build.
I left the country I was born in, leaving most of my family behind and at the age of 12, I had already moved six times and had lived in five different countries.
You became the place where I felt the safest, the most like myself. And I got lost in the security that only a well-built home can provide.
I want you to know that I didn’t leave because of you, I left because of me, because of the person I was becoming, because of the person I was turning into and because I started to feel like I didn’t belong.
You weren’t here to stay. I know that now. But someone should have told me.
Home is the warmth of laughter with friends and sipping out of cracked dollar-store wine glasses. Home is simply an association to the place where you have the freedom to be you.
What I see in you is poetry. I see a perfectly imperfect and beautifully flawed human being – a speck of dust in the universe, made of some of the same atoms and molecules as the stars.
The thing about home is that it’s transitory. It changes as you change.
I can’t see myself starting over somewhere else, I can’t see myself getting a random job just to live in another country, I can’t see myself suspending everything I valued yet again for uncertainty. More than it being a safe decision, it was the decision I just knew in my heart, logic aside, that I had to make.
My home became the place that taught me how to transition into adult life, little by little and piece by piece.