In the nineteen years I have been alive, I have lived in three different states, seven different towns, and nine different houses. I have experienced the Southern hospitality of Georgia, the Midwestern warmth of Chicago, and the Northern pride of Maine. Each of these places hold fond memories, life lessons, and most importantly, long lasting friendships. I find myself connected to people across the country due to my family’s history with moving, and now, with college, I have even more relationships to maintain. It often feels as though no one place is home, as the people I love and miss span across state lines.Â
When people ask me where I’m from, I often have to pause – thinking on how I might respond. Do I say Georgia? I was born and raised there for eleven years. Do I say Chicago? I spent middle and high school there, some of my most formative years. Do I say Maine? My family lives there now and it’s where the house I drive to on school breaks is. Oftentimes, this simple question turns into a long winded answer – one far more complex than the questioner initially had in mind. This lengthy response used to make me uncomfortable, causing me to feel as though I didn’t have one, true home. I felt envious of the friends I had who still lived in their childhood home – everything around them tying them to their past. While these feelings do persist, I can also look at my life of change as a sign of my adaptability.Â
As someone who has managed to maintain friendships created in preschool in Atlanta, summer camp in Maine, and high school in Chicago, I have learned that home is not a designated location on a map. Rather, I find home in airport hugs, unexpected “I saw this and thought of you” texts, or a shared song that brings me to a specific moment in time. In these nineteen years spent across states and towns, I often thought I didn’t have a home. Now, I know I have built one – not something viewable on a map, but a home created and built out of the people who have loved me through every move.