On My Way Home: Learning to Live (and Love) My Life Uprooted

Through tearful sobs, I begged God to tell me what Home means to me, because I had no idea anymore. An evening that started off with restlessness and frustration quickly turned into a full-blown meltdown that was long overdue. Please tell me what Home is supposed to mean to me, because I am so tired of searching, I cried.

Home has been the theme of my life ever since I can remember. I had a difficult childhood, growing up through a civil war in then-Yugoslavia that left my family and I constantly living out of other people’s homes, rarely our own. I distinctly remember moving into a family member’s house and picking up a broom in the backyard to sweep, instead of choosing a toy; I so badly wanted a place in which to settle down and call my own. That war took much away from us, but what it stole the most was our connection and right to call a place Home. I have been searching for that place ever since.

Fast forward many years later into adulthood, I thought moving out of my parents’ house was going to be the opportunity for me to find my very own Home. Little did I know that moving into an apartment is only half the battle: the other half is battling with overwhelming loneliness. OK, I’m here, on my own. When does it start feeling good? I had a home, but it didn’t feel like Home. It felt like this foreign place with…