I went to see Role Model (sorry, I meant Sabrina Carpenter) last week in Toronto. A religious experience Iāll talk about in depth another time but the reason I bring it up is because there was a moment there that left me with this question mark of a feeling. A weird, achey feeling that I havenāt been able to shake, so Iām writing about it in the hope of making more sense of itābecause if I donāt write it out, Iāll overthink it to death.
To set the scene for you, he was singing The Dinner (skip to min 0:58 to understand what Iām talking about), a song off of his most recent album, Kansas Anymore, which you MUST listen to if you havenāt already. Thereās a part of the song where he sings ātake me homeeeeā and I was singing it back to him along with the audience. The echo it created was one of the most beautiful things Iāve ever experienced. Like something we were all collectively yearning for. Maybe it was the magic of that moment, or the week I was having, or a combination of both, but that line cracked something open. It made me think about homeāwhat it is, what it isnāt, and why it feels more like a question than an answer these days.
Summerās creeping in, and suddenly home is a thing I have to define again. Where do I go? What do I call home now? As someone who moved out at 18 and ended up so far away, I tend to dissociate from the word. Home is supposed to be a place, but sometimes itās not. Itās a collection of people, but the people I love exist in different worlds. Each version of home feels like a separate life Iāve lived, and I donāt know which one belongs to me now.
Right now, home is my roommates. Itās our little universe, stitched together by grocery runs that turn into side quests at Loblaws. Dinner timeānon-negotiable. Wine nights. Face masks. Dramatic ācome to Jesus’ talks when someone doesnāt get the grade or the job they wanted and make dramatic remarks about dropping out of their degree (guilty). Home is the ease of knowing I can walk through the door and be met with the kind of chaos that makes everything feel lighter.Ā
But home is also my parents. My brother. Zen (our dog). Except when I go back, it feels like visiting. Thereās distance now, not just physical but emotional. Itās different yet I still find myself missing them in strange, unexpected ways. Theyāre the same, but Iām different, or maybe itās the other way around. I wish they knew the me that I am here. Sometimes, I think Iām making up for not being homesick during my first and second years but Iām not sure what exactly Iām longing for. The comfort? The familiarity? The version of me that lived there before?
Home is changing too. We put down our first family dog recently, and that grief hit harder than I expected. The people I love are going through their own obstacles, and sometimes that makes them feel like different versions of themselves. Like theyāre still there, but not them in the way they used to be. Itās jarring to realize that the people who’ve felt like constants also carry their own cracks and bruises. I guess that thatās part of growing up ā realizing theyāre human, like I am.
Maybe thatās whatās unsettling me. The idea that home isnāt something I can return toāitās something that moves with me. Something I have to keep redefining as I grow up and grow out of versions of myself.
That night at the Role Model concert, when a venue full of strangers sang “take me home,” I think we were all singing about different things. Different places, different people. But we all knew the ache.
I donāt have an answer, but maybe thatās the point. Home isnāt a place I can return toāitās something I carry with me, even when it feels like itās slipping through my fingers. And maybe that ache Iāve been feeling isnāt a bad thing. Maybe it just means Iāve had the privilege of having people and places worth missing.
Glass half full, thatās what my momma taught me.