I never thought I had a home. Maybe it’s because I grew up on the ocean–in a country I knew we’d eventually have to leave. It seemed too good to be true sometimes; I was always afraid if I got too attached, I wouldn’t know how to survive letting go.
And so I convinced myself, as so many “expats” do, that home was anywhere I took it. I clung to the words from Eat, Pray, Love–“You are a perfect snail: you carry your home on your back. You should hold on to that freedom for as long as possible.”
And so I did–I held on for dear life. I never gave it too much thought when people asked, “What does home mean to you?” I quickly brushed over the details.
I defined home in a way that fit whatever conversation I was having. “Home is the people in your life”; “Home is wherever you feel happy;” “Home is in your heart”–and all sorts of other clichés.
And then today, while flipping through photographs of children’s bedrooms from across the world, in a stunning portrayal by James Mollison, I burst into tears. After nearly 30 years of denying the truth, I saw my home so clearly in the mirror of another girl’s bedroom.
I did have a home, and it’s the place I spent the years of my life that were blessed with innocence. I can see it, I can smell it, I can hear the prayer call outside the window. I can feel the warmth of my duvet, tucked under my feet. I remember the certainty of the next day: breakfast with daddy, car ride with sister, school with friends, lunch with mummy, homework alone, the rest unknown. There was assurance that tomorrow would probably feel just like today, and the same people would be there.
The growing years, the changing cities–they all slowly took apart, one life-altering decision at a time– that certainty of what was to come the next day.
I know now, no longer able to go back there, that it had been home all along.
I realize there’s really nothing complex about it. Home is the first place that comes to mind when someone says, ‘home’. It’s just a matter of admitting it.
