Over the course of my 21 years of life, I’ve lived in nine different houses/apartments; three countries; five cities. But until recently, I couldn’t tell you if I’ve ever lived somewhere I’d call home.
By Merriam-Webster’s definition, “home” refers to one’s place of residence, and also as “the social unit formed by a family living together.” I had the luxury of living in various places and growing up comfortably. I never lacked the essentials, and I was given every opportunity to explore my interests and identity with my parents’ unwavering love and support.
But there’s always been a gap. When my friends talked about their long-standing relationships with their friends and families—visiting grandparents over the weekends, spending holidays with their extended families—I knew this would never be an experience I could share. Moving around as much as I did, the idea of being best friends with my cousins or living next door to friends for so many years that we basically became siblings wasn’t feasible for me.
For all these types of interpersonal relationships, I generally knew but one: A promising—but casual—new friendship cut short by my family’s next move. Though it is now possible to keep in touch over social media, this option was not one I had access to as a child. Besides, nothing comes close to in-person connection; over time and separated by a phone, it seemed my presence in my extended family’s and casual friends’ minds would eventually fade.
Every move, I would make new friends, and after a couple years, we would move again. I felt a piece of myself stay behind with every changing town. Until I was a teenager, I felt like no one cared about me as much as they did their other friends; and how could I blame them? I wasn’t physically there.
My heart has been separated into so many segments, each one being left in different regions and experiences with people who I’ll never see or meet again. So how can home be where the heart is if my heart is fragmented into all these pieces?
If I could never stay in one place long enough to establish a home, what was the point in relentlessly trying to make one? As a result, I avoided over-personalizing my spaces, knowing it was but a few years until I would have to tear down the decorations and repaint the walls. Establishing intimate connections felt similarly futile, as I would eventually have to tear myself away from everyone I’d met anyway.
As a student and an immigrant, I’ve always felt like I didn’t quite belong anywhere I went. So I’ve had to learn to find the feeling of home in places other than my residence—I’ve been searching for it in the love around me.
The compassion and love my friends and family have shown me created a home in themselves. My friend and her mom once drove 16 hours total from Toronto to Stamford, Connecticut for a weekend visit; my Whitby friends have driven up to Montreal at least twice a year for nearly four years now. With sleeping bags and air mattresses sprawled on the cold floor of my tiny studio apartment, I’m reminded that I’ll likely never find friends like these again.
Though my scenery changes constantly, I will always cherish my chosen family.
So why should I deprive myself of the joy of having a home that’s my own, filled with colourful ceramic dishes, thrifted crystal lamps, and the laughter of my loved ones? With every hand-me-down from my family, personal trinket, or thoughtful act from my friends, I bring a bit of everything—and everyone—I’ve experienced into every place I go, and, in the process, I leave a piece of myself in every place I’ve been.
With my turbulent living arrangements, I felt like I would never know stability and community; but, with every year, I’m thankful for the tumultuous moves, as every step has been bringing me closer to something that I might someday call home.
