I often joke about being homeless. And technically I am. I don’t know what to answer when people ask where I live. I don’t know what home is anymore. It’s not the place where I grew up. I isn’t even the country where I grew up. Only on paper. Home is a place I’m looking for. While I’m doing that, it’s wherever I put down my bag. I have many homes, some more comfy than others.
So while I’m on the road, there are a few things that make up my home. Home is on my camera and laptop. It’s in the photos I take and have taken over the years. Looking back at all my adventures and the places that have been ‘home’ makes me happy and pulls me through the bad times. Home is in the one pretty dress I carry around and wear whenever I can, reminding me of all the others in my closet. Home is in my phone, that sort of keeps me in touch with real life. Home is in my bag of toiletries, that brings smells you find all over the world. And mostly, home is in my backpack. It’s never failing me, no matter what I put it through. It happily carries all that I care about.
I keep looking for home, but sometimes home is not a physical place. Sometimes home is in your head. Home is the moment you feel good about what you are doing. Home can be anywhere.