Home is where the heart is, but my heart beats inside my chest. Closed in by four walls of bone and blood and sinew.
My chest is in Vang Vieng, Laos. This is not my home.
They aren't being literal of course -- they mean that home is with your loved ones.
So I must split my heart into pieces, see it scattered to the valleys in Wales, the waves in Portsmouth, the flat buildings in Melbourne, the fire escape in Brockley, the red brick in Leicester, the island in New York… how much do I keep close inside my chest so I don't collapse?
I used to claim I never got homesick. When I spent a year studying in Canada I told people, with pride too, that yes, I missed my family but not much, not enough to call it homesick. I'm used to it, I'd say. Having been uprooted from my childhood home at 8 to live in the polar opposite city of Dubai. Having then returned to the UK four years later, not to that home (which by then was already sold and someone else's future), but to my grandparent's house where I shared a room with my mum. Having then said goodbye to my Dad and sister, who went to Wales and did not come back. Having then left, again, for my fifth and final school down South, where we'd never put down roots before. Having then chosen to go to University in a city three hours away from both of my parents. Having then elected to do a year abroad an ocean away from everyone. Other people have childhood homes they return to for the holidays. I have fourteen addresses I can now only half remember.
I wasn't just used to it, it was my life. Saying goodbye to a place and always being away from somewhere and someone.
It wasn't until I started therapy and I was forced to reckon with how I actually felt, that I realised I was a liar. Not intentionally. I had just never before paused to listen to my feelings, the way they manifested in a hollow chest or shaky breath or restless hands.
Now I know homesick feels like an itch you can't scratch. It's when you're hungry but you can't put your finger on what you need to satisfy it; when you walk into a room but you can't remember why you're there. It's a slight displacement of ease that sends you careening back to childhood. Suddenly you need a hug from your parents.
I am homesick now. Watching as everyone sets up their Christmas trees, buries their noses into scarves against the falling snow, prepares their out of office ready to go home. All a thousand miles away. I am missing a routine too. The rhythm of going to the gym, work, the small shop on the way home, cooking tea. Seeing my friends who know me inside and out. Making plans for New Years. Secret santa. The light in Clarendon Park at 4pm. KitKat sneaking into my duvet while the rest of the house sleeps. A glass of squash made with water from the tap. Getting giddy with excitement on the early train to London to spend the weekend with Rachael, Liv, Shona... I was meant to join them there, on a permanent basis. Instead I stepped onto a plane.
I am grieving that life, the life I chose to leave. I'm still happy I left. Even though it meant ending something before it had begun, something that might have been wonderful. For a long time I lived my life for someone else. I'm glad that this time I stuck by me. Even if it meant another goodbye.
So I grieve and that's homesickness, beating in my chest right here.
I am lucky to have lived so many lives. To have crossed paths with so many others. To feel like my heart is tugged across oceans, for people who aren't only friends but family too.
Sure, it means I'll never have a home -- not one where my height is tracked up the wall or my address is easy to report to the bank or my friends will have been for tea. But I have homes, scattered and collected over the years, all beacons to bring me back. Because home is where the heart is and I've left mine strewn across the world.
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