Feeling not “at home”, at home. It’s quite an interesting conversation. Confusing, really. I like to think that I’m aware of how fortunate I am to call Canada my home — this beautiful country filled with a mosaic of cultures, brimming with opportunities. So how could it possibly be that despite the abundance of blessings that surround me, there lingers a persistent yearning for elsewhere? How could it possibly be that everything I am so lucky to have simply does not feel like enough? I can only assume that these questions can be explained by the phenomenon that gratitude and longing are not mutually exclusive.
Longing, specifically, is something we should explore. Beautifully melancholic, it’s a feeling I consider to be rather vulnerable — one that lacks comfort and yet overflows with appreciation. Be it for a person, a place, or a time in our lives, longing demands an experience that is entirely gut-wrenching and heart-warming all at once. It’s a feeling of simultaneous loss and reward. In partial combination with grief, longing is synonymous with mourning a comfort that allows us to finally exhale; a comfort that feels like finally coming home.
I’ve come to learn that home is both a feeling and a place. I only fully understood it a few weeks ago when I was lucky enough to experience my fourth visit to England. Ever since my first visit, I have experienced this sigh-of-relief type of feeling as soon as the plane lands. This high, however, only lasts until the plane takes off to take me elsewhere, even if it is to another country I have the privilege of exploring. This trip taught me that where one comes from isn’t always their home. So, with my longing eye, I wait to feel home.
In some twisted way, not feeling at home while being in the place we call home is a testament to the ever-evolving nature of human existence. It challenges our boundaries of familiarity in its relentless pursuit of meaning, purpose, and belonging. Sometimes, we can’t help but think that we are meant for something different; something so unfamiliar that it makes the pieces fall right into place.
While I know what “home” looks like, I also know what it feels like. Home is not the playground next to my house or the intersection by my high school — the physical places, the streets, the bars, or the bakeries. There are, of course, parts of “home” that evoke the overwhelming comfort we all seek. I feel at home when I hear my mother’s voice; when I see my best friend laugh; when I feel someone I love.
Home is a paradox — a delicate balance between the familiar and the unknown, the past and the present, the longing and the belonging. It is a journey rather than a destination, a feeling beyond time and space. A place where we feel like we first learned to breathe and a feeling so relaxing it feels euphoric.