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 scroll through photos of places you’ve never been, feeling a strange pull, a quiet voice that says, maybe there.

But home doesn’t come easy for people like us. We exist in the in-between, never fully rooted, never completely settled. We move through spaces like guests in our own lives, waiting for that moment where everything clicks and we finally exhale.

It’s a strange thing, wanting to belong but never quite knowing where. Watching others talk about “going home” and realizing you don’t have a place that calls you back. It’s not loneliness exactly — more like a constant state of transit, like you’re living out of a packed bag even when you’ve been in the same place for years.

But maybe home isn’t a destination. Maybe it’s a feeling we build, piece by piece, moment by moment. Maybe it’s something we stumble into when we least expect it, when we stop chasing, when we stop looking for it in places that were never meant to hold us.

Or maybe, for some of us, home is still out there — waiting to be found.

And maybe, just maybe, some people aren’t meant to stay in one place for too long. Maybe home, for us, is movement. It’s evolution, it’s levelling up, it’s outgrowing old versions of ourselves and stepping into new ones. It’s the thrill of leaving, of chasing bigger things, of knowing that what once felt like home may not be enough forever.

Some people are meant to plant roots. Others? We’re meant to keep moving, keep reaching, keep becoming. Because maybe the real definition of home isn’t a place at all — maybe it’s just wherever we’re meant to be next.