The Journey Inward

I read this instagram post by yan.writings.abroad that resonated with me…

What living abroad does to your sense of home:

• Home stops being a place and starts becoming a feeling. You visit where you grew up and it feels familiar, but not entirely yours anymore. You build routines somewhere new and one day realise you defend it like it has always been yours. You start missing two places at once. You measure time in flights and seasons instead of years. You carry pieces of different cultures in how you speak, think and live. Eventually, home becomes less about geography and more about who you are becoming.

I was born and raised in the same home throughout my whole childhood. I loved my split level house, my bedroom at one end of the hall, our creepy crawl space that was perfect for hide-and-seek if you dared and where all the Christmas decorations were stored, watching thunderstorms on the back porch, the tall pine trees that surrounded the perimeter of my yard and were great for climbing in the warm months and sheltering under in the snowy months. I loved living close to my K-8 school, riding my bike to the library and pool, walking to the tennis courts and ball fields where I spent so much time, and the post office, Friendly’s and 7-11 in the center of town. I adored the 4th of July, watching fireworks from my porch roof. I loved that we had a pedestrian bridge over Route 22 so we could be on both sides of town even from a young age. I loved the big hills that we coasted down on our bikes with no hands and being outside all day and again after dinner. Fireflies, caterpillars, bunnies and deer were all part of my shared habitat. I loved my home.

At 18, I went off to college, ready for independence, freedom and new experiences. My college dorm was co-ed with a bathroom I shared with all the women on my floor. We spent many a late night sitting in the hallway chatting or playing ping pong in the rec room or people watching in the student center. My second year I became a CA in an all girls’ dorm and met my best friend, MJ. Days and nights were filled with long talks, lots of laughs, workouts in the basement gym and leadership retreats. I had found my people, set up my space and made a new home.

In my junior year, my four friends and I rented a townhouse off campus in Lawrenceville. We had a cleaning and cooking schedule and worked out rent based on room size. I explored my new area by bicycle on weekends to know it more intimately. We shared shifts at Gap and Case Lupita, babysat neighbors’ kids and alternated time living abroad. These women, this house, was home.

I returned home to visit my parents regularly, but after my freshman year of college, I never lived at home again. There was a part conscious/part unconscious awareness of what had been and what would never be again.

Then there was my first job, complete with an apartment with one of my best friends in Rocky Hill. I was grown up, using my salary to pay for rent, groceries, gas, and all the adult things that were no longer supported or supplemented by my parents. I loved living near the canal, going into Princeton, shopping at the pottery store around the corner and adopting my kitten, Alex, from the pet store in town. I’d once again set up my space, found my people, and settled in. I was home again.

I got engaged and we bought a townhouse in Ewing as our first house, first living there with two good friends and eventually my husband. It was brand new, but with very little character, so making improvements became our hobby as time and money allowed. We met neighbors and hosted parties, joined block parties and walked down to the river. We had a rhythm and comfort there and it was home.

A few years later, we decided to buy a home on three acres atop a hill in the country. We planted pine trees around the perimeter and painted the walls inside with warm colors. Again a new home without character, but we made it ours. It was home for the next 20 years, raising three children, one cat, three dogs, two mice, two rats, some hermit crabs and gerbils there.

All throughout, I went back to visit my parents in the same house. For my hometown, I felt familiarity, nostalgia, love and even disgust at times. But it wasn’t home anymore. But neither were my dorm, off campus housing, apartment, townhouse or this latest house. Instead, every place was my home and no place was.

After my divorce, I moved again, this time into a bungalow in town. I walked miles every day and learned the lay of the land… the people, pets, quirks, and landscaping. I shopped local and had coffee dates. I called this home my sanctuary because it was where I began again. It was all mine and gave me the freedom to get to know myself again. I got my feet under me and was resilient and resourceful. I chose the furniture and decor with intention, feeling it was everything I needed and nothing I didn’t. It was home and I reclaimed myself there.

Fast forward to September 2025, where I set up home again, this time in South Africa, bringing some sentimental items with me and being open to adding new items from this new place. My belongings were unpacked and my space organized in 24 hours and I surprised myself with how quickly I adapted to it, my surrounding town and my new job. I felt immediately at home with the warm people, beautiful weather and gardens that called to me. Home on a new continent.

I have felt at home in places I’ve only visited, twice having the visceral feeling of complete belonging, once on the southeast coast of Scotland and the other time as I crossed the border into Oregon. Both places grabbed me in what my friend Mark called spiritual geography. I could explain what I loved about each place, but it wasn’t about words. It was a strong inner sense that brought immediate peace.

When I went home at Christmas, I wondered what it would feel like to stay in my home, now home to my dear friends. What would it be like to be a visitor in the guest room? It felt beautiful, wonderful, just right. The home was working its magic on them. And I was just as happy when I flew off to San Diego and Astoria. My children’s homes felt like home, too.

I have loved each place I’ve lived and despite leaving meaningful memories and fabulous friends behind, I never saw it that way. I was just moving forward – to the next adventure, the next stage, the next home. My people, my experiences, my feelings were always with me. Home truly has been less about the where I’m going and more about the who I’m becoming.