What if home is yet to be discovered?
For the longest time, I thought home was a place. A house with familiar walls, a city where I knew the shortcuts, a childhood bed that remembered the weight of me. But the older I got, the more the idea of home felt slippery — like something I was supposed to have, but never quite found. People talk about home like it’s a given. Like you’re supposed to just have one. But what if you don’t? What if you’ve never felt it, not really? What if home isn’t where you grew up, or where you live now, or where everyone assumes you belong? Maybe you’ve moved too many times, leaving pieces of yourself scattered in different places. Maybe the people who once made a place feel like home aren’t there anymore. Maybe you’ve outgrown it, or maybe it never fit in the first place. And so you keep searching — thinking maybe it’s in another city, another country, another person. You imagine packing up your life in a suitcase, starting over, walking into a version of yourself that finally fits. You...
