What It Feels Like To Have No Home

My whole life, I’ve been programmed to move, to move on, and to build, and to move again.

… And so the cycle repeats itself.

I’ve always seen it as a blessing. “Look at me, I’m so open-minded, I’m so special because I’ve lived in all these places. Yes, I do feel entitled, and yeah, I think I’m better than you.”

It was never easy to move, to watch the pieces of the life you’ve build slowly crumble in front of you, and to pick up what’s left – the foundation of my life – and slowly rekindle them and make them grow, somewhere else.

But every move, more and more pieces would go missing. They would get lost in the immensity that is the world.

Every time I moved, I lost a bit of myself, a bit of my identity. “Who am I? Where am I from?” I bet you wanna know the answers to these questions. As do I.

I’m not gonna lie, it was such a kick; a thrill. With changing lives every few years, there’s always the possibility of new things.

“I can be who I wanna be. I can start fresh, write a new book in this new place, where no one knows my story.”

You can only imagine how much this opportunity worsens someone’s identity crisis… ”

Let me count… I’ve lived in eight different countries, therefore, I have now had the opportunity to re-invent myself, well, eight times.”

When you grow up this way, without familiar faces and places, without people around you reminding you who you are, how is it possible for someone to fathom one’s change? How can someone understand exactly who they are if there is no constant reminder of who they were?

And here I am, 28 months and counting in the same place.
I’m 20 years old and in love.

Today, I am starting to understand that, no, I am not better than everyone. No, I’m not that special. I’m just another girl in love.

But unlike most people, I’m missing those compasses, those constant reminders of who I am and how I have grown.

I’ve built myself different identities, per se, and now, there’s no running from who I really am. My inner self is catching up with me.

I’m 20 years old and I don’t know who I am, and it took me falling in love to realize I’m not immune to life;

I can’t run away – I don’t want to.

I can’t re-invent myself – it would be too hard even if I tried.

There’s no picking up the pieces and moving on anymore.

There’s no more running.

And I’m scared.