I miss my home.
But it’s hard to explain what exactly it is I yearn for, because I don’t have a home. My home isn’t a place, it isn’t a person. My home is a feeling.
Home is a feeling I haven’t felt in a while. Of safety. Of freedom.
Home is where I can unwind and unburden myself. Home is peace.
Home has been people and places at times. Home was once my mother and father, then it was my school, then it was my teenaged bedroom.
My home became my first car, then it was my sister’s homes.
When I was in college, home became the basement of the building I spent my late nights in. The community around me.
When my dad died, I found my home in my boyfriend at the time. He made me feel safe and loved, usually. Mostly he just hugged me when I cried.
When we parted ways, work became my home. The people who hold me up on a day-to-day basis, who check on me, and make me laugh are my home.
Then, for many months, I had no home. Or, maybe I became my own home. I am my own home. Home is in a lazy Friday watching Netflix, a home cooked meal, snuggles with my cat.
I was happy being my own home. I am happy being my own home. But now, I once again feel like I don’t have a home.
Maybe my home will become my partner who pushes me past my limits and encourages me to be better. Maybe my home will become my niece, who makes me want to be the best role model.
Maybe my home is my notebook, where I jot down all the things that pop into my head at random.
I have no idea where my home is. I just know that I miss it.