I grew up not needing a lot to feel whole. I had my mother and my dogs and that was family: small and a little unusual, but it was mine. For eighteen years, that was home, completely and entirely. Brooklyn is where I learned responsibility and self worth, where I became dually the best and worst versions of myself, where I finally came into my own. My roots remain there; that connectedness will always exist, but in flying the nest and separating myself physically from the constant sense of security my mother’s home provided, I sought out traces of that comfort in new people.
I have a new family now, one that’s not so small but just as unusual: family in the form of friends. This is a family I chose for myself, handpicked to spend my days with, to learn from and love.
I give bits and pieces of myself to those I care the most about. Parts of my heart live throughout New York City and Washington D.C. Some inhabit places like California and England, New Mexico and Italy, Texas and Australia. Parts have traveled from Belgium to Florida, from Taiwan to Albany and back again. I feel constant displacement; my sense of normalcy is skewed. They say home is not a place but a feeling, and what was supposed to be my family away from home has become such a vital piece in what I need to feel complete. I return to my childhood home, to my mother and my dogs, my small and unusual family, and I realize that even my original and most organic home no longer feels whole.
It always feels as if something is missing; I am never completely satisfied. I’m in a constant state of yearning for the family that I am away from. I used to be angry; I wanted so badly to feel the ease and completeness I did before. I see now that this is necessary—to grow is to be uncomfortable at times. I feel fortunate to know both love and growth this way. The distribution of my heart has become so vast; I have a bit of home everywhere I go. I wouldn’t change that for the world.