Home is where the heart is. A phrase that reminds us of homemade food and long drawn-out hugs. When we’re away, we dream about our pillows and couches. When we’re there, we indulge in all foods possible and visit old friends that we haven’t seen since high school. However for others, “home” could be a very different concept. Some people never really got to form a home in the sense of having a community, a firm place of belonging filled with childhood friends, or a place where passing the elementary school reminds you of grass stains all over your clothes. Instead, some people don’t have that kind of home.  My sister and I got the news of moving a few times and through it all, address after address, street after street, we learned that home doesn’t have to be a building, a community, or even a place. My home, first a crib and then a room and then a neighborhood, became a sense of belonging I held within myself. Brick by brick, I built my metaphoric home through the people I met, the culture I’ve absorbed, and the loved ones that have been there through it all.

Home is the world. Home is where you go, the people you influence on the way, and most importantly those people’s influence on you. Home can be a reunion with a dear friend, a new found exploration, or a sister who who still dances to all your early 2000 favorites. Home is the connections we form with the world around us and the people in it. Home is the lessons history carries, the gift of nature our Earth provides, and the art that can take you anywhere your imagination can muster. Home is the culture you submerge yourself in, the the beauty of the world in its most unprejudiced form, and the art that can mold a man’s cornerstone.

Home is the little stuff. I never feel more at home than when I laugh my ugly laugh. You know the one…the really loud one that simultaneously scares birds away, makes you drool everywhere, and forces an impromptu carpet inspection from lack of leg capabilities. I learned that these laughs deserved to be cherished, especially the people providing them. Amidst those moments of utter chaos, there’s irreplaceable energy, joy, and human connection. Transversely, the feeling of home also draws near when the people in your life don’t have to say anything at all. During the silent times, the time in between everything else, there’s a certain look of understanding that only comes from people who know your every thought. The looks of “everything going to be okay” or a simple “I’m sorry,” can comfort from afar and provide support you didn’t know you needed. The people who give you their leftover food without even asking if you want them. The ones who understand that they’re on your team, and you’re on theirs without having to ask. The needed and unprompted looks of comfort when the world thinks you’re okay or the full on conversations through eye contact filled with inappropriate humor, and undying trust are the looks that allow me to know that I have a full home, indeed.

And most importantly, home is the memories we take with us from every city, every address, each community we’ve visited, and each adventure we endure. The special ones that we hold on to because they made us who we are. The happy ones, the silly ones, the obnoxious ones, the dangerous-by-every-standard-possible ones, and even the hurtful ones are held onto. Memories are tricky little heathens because sometimes the memories we carry with us are the ones that leave us longing for four walls in a city that we feel apart of. They make us miss having our people, make us miss belonging. But we carry them with us none the less because these memories are the ones that give us hope. It gives us hope that the next endeavor has something that’s not better or worse than the last, but something completely different; unique and new and never to be replicated. Something to experience and grow from. Memories we hold dear gives us comfort when the world has failed us and puts our past lessons of triumph to use. Memories keep us going when the days get dark because we know happiness is more than possible if we set our mind to it. And memories are the ones that bring us back when we’ve completely lost our way. Understanding what has built us and what we can overcome.  These are our pillars, our home-base, and our light at the end of the tunnel. These are the memories that inspire us.

Because in the end, there will always be a new street sign, there will always be a new rooms, there will always be new zip codes. But, luckily, that isn’t home. My home is the joys I fill those walls with. My home is the people I let shelter and support me. My home is experiences I continue to carry to every new place. Luckily, and by God I do mean luckily, there will always be new carpet to laugh and cry on. There will always be new roads to fill with endless kereoke sessions. But there will never be another person to create those laughs, there won’t be another you to sing off key. Communities may come and go, but what you bring to those communities is indisputably your very own. The compilation of the knowledge and culture you’ve absorbed can’t be replicated. There won’t be anybody else that brings the same home with them, as you do with you.

For those who wear our homes on our sleeves, your home, built from people and experience, is one shaped with every person you meet and every experience you have. Carrying your home with you not only allows the world to be your home, but more importantly, you get to be the world’s home. Having your home-ready at hand to hold on to, show off, and even give away for people to experience with you. You get to provide your story and give people the things your home gives to you. You get to share your home. And sometimes, in this lonely screwed up world, all people really need, is a little piece of home.

Signed With Love,

-T