Ever since I was a kid, I’ve always lived outside my home. And by home, I mean my actual home, the one where I was born, where my parents and siblings live. From around when I was nine or ten, I started staying with different relatives. Not because something was wrong at home, but simply because I was welcomed everywhere I went.
At some point, choosing where to spend my holidays became stressful in the funniest way. I’d have more than one person calling ahead, already claiming me before the holidays even started. And whenever I finally went visiting, saying goodbye was always the hardest part. Everyone would get sad, myself included. I’d keep pushing my departure date. “Just one more day,” I’d say. One more day would turn into a week, weeks into months, and before I knew it, I had lived with my aunt and cousins for six years. A whole stretch of my life passed there, and it never felt like I was living outside a home.
That experience taught me early that home has outgrown the meaning of a building with people in it. What truly matters is the feeling attached to a place. Many people live with their families, yet the space doesn’t feel like home. For some, the thought of returning there after a long day feels heavy, even haunting. Not because of ghosts, but because the people they share that space with resemble the monsters that visit their nightmares. And that’s the exact opposite of what a home should feel like.
A home is supposed to be a place you long to return to. Somewhere your heart rushes toward after a stressful day. A place where you don’t have to pretend or dilute yourself. Where love is present and leads naturally. Where your heart sighs in relief at the mere thought of it. When people say, “there’s no place like home,” sometimes they mean it very literally. They mean that no matter where life takes you, you’ll still miss the comfort of seeing your parents or siblings. These are the first people who knew you, who saw you at your worst and your best, and loved you through every version anyway. Leaving and returning to them carries a different kind of comfort.
Other times, when that phrase is said, it has nothing to do with walls or rooms. It’s about people. People who slowly become home. They begin as strangers, or even random connections, and then somehow turn into the safest place you know. Their presence fills a space you didn’t even realize was empty. They listen at odd hours. They offer comfort without conditions. They hold space for you without asking you to explain yourself too much.
Outside of my family, I have met people from different walks of life who became a home away from home for me. People who make the world feel less loud. People whose existence reminds me that belonging doesn’t always come from blood, but from , kindness, and care. Sometimes home is a familiar laugh. Sometimes it’s a voice that calms you down. Sometimes it’s just knowing someone is there for you at all times.
Whether it’s a place or a person, home is where we find the most peace in the middle of a chaotic world. And maybe that’s the beauty of it, home isn’t always one location. Sometimes it’s many. Sometimes it's the people in those locations that gives the feeling of a home. Regardless of the form it comes, it is where the heart settles.
Images are mine