I am of the belief that home is not a place. Hearing the words, “There’s no place like home” really ticks me off because it insists home is a place. I have evolved into believing- and experienced into knowing- that home is indeed a feeling and not a place. The word “home” can be defined as “the place where one lives permanently, especially as a family member or a household”. The denotation of “home” is to be four walls and a roof, but it is very different. I define as home as the tying of the strings of your heart to the rails of experience. Home is the anchoring of your heart where your body is not docked. Home is the feeling of ethereal peace while the current of chaos roars on around you. Therefore, home is not where you live but is indeed a list of endless possibilities ranging from a house to a person and even a meal. 

This ideology came to be on a cold summer evening. I had just had the life changing experience which birthed the realization that my parents were not who I believed them to be. My hearts felt as though a ruminant had chewed it up, ejected it and proceeded to wipe it down with rubbing alcohol, and then attempted to sew it back with a blunt needle and a thread laced with thorns. My soul was distressed and I was furious. I was angry. What was this lie I was made to believe my entire life? Who told me that the people who parent you have to be these perfect, angelic and God-like saints and were capable of doing no wrong? I cried excessively and felt torn. If my parents aren’t who I thought they were, is home really what I think it is? I found it increasingly uncomfortable to live in my house. I found the urge to run away. I felt the need to inhale and never exhale. I felt the need to sleep forever. Why would I feel like taking my own life in my own home? Isn’t this supposed to be the safest place of all? My refuge? Is this not my solace? Are all my problems not supposed to disappear at the door while I immediately float to cloud nine? I felt this disease grow within me as the sun set every day. I was not at home. In my own house and in my own room, I was out of place. I was struggling with understanding why my house did not feel like home anymore. Wasn’t it just a realization? It shouldn’t have this effect on me. I must be overreacting surely. But I wasn’t. My body was docked in my house but my heart was anchored far at sea, where my tears and headaches couldn’t bring it back. I began to think about the all the anchors I had. I had a lot. It was the couch by the door of my creative writing class. It was lower stage of my high school theater. The bedroom in my basement in the summer. Long FaceTime calls with Temi. The check-in desk of the children’s department at church. It was Boluwarin’s car on Sunday afternoons. It was the floor of my sister’s bedroom. The food court of The Core with Mia. It was cuddling Uju and Tyra during shows. Every single one of these things sent my heart such immense doses of peace and love so I was not hearkened to the raging of my life’s storm.

Home is how your heart feels in a place and during an experience. Because you “feel” your home, it is more than your house. Your home is that moment you shared with someone today which sent your heart in a lovely frenzy of feelings and flutters. Your home today may not always be your home tomorrow. We may only live in some of our homes for a minute. We may live in some forever. Never lose sight of the fact that your house can be home to you. If so, you are one of the lucky few. I urge you to find your home. Please. Find it and go as often as you can. Go home when you close your eyes. Go home when you sleep. Go home when your heart is torn apart. Go home when the storm of your life is bearing down on you. Go home when the pressure is causing you to cave. Go home when you are unable to find yourself. Find your home and go to it. Please.