I’m pretty picky about the places I call home, I also think I approach it a little differently than most people. I can attach the word “home” to a place where I genuinely felt love, felt welcome, and felt comfortable.
I’ve had a lot of homes in my life. And I’ve had a lot of houses I wouldn’t necessarily call home.
I have no attachment to the house I grew up in as a child. My parents sold it when I was in college. I came back, grabbed a few things, and left it behind. It never really felt like a home and harbored a lot of bad memories because I struggled in school. My parents changed my childhood bedroom up after I left for college and that was probably the only place I really had a connection to. I was ready to leave it behind, it didn’t feel like home.
And when my parents moved into a new house, that didn’t feel like home either. Mostly because I had made a true home at college. My grandparents also lived twenty minutes away from my college house, so their home felt like home to me too. The stretch of road between the two feels like home, especially when the sun is shining.
The beach I grew up going to feels like home, but it wasn’t always like that and it’s not a building. It’s the shoreline during winter that feels like home.
New Hampshire feels like home. It feels like the place I came to as the final push into adulthood. The place that recognized I could do and be so much more.
And I find home in people more than anything. The ones that don’t make me feel shame or anxiety to be a certain way when I’m around them. There are so many people and places to call home, you just have to search for them.