I always thought I would leave the city I grew up in. I know I’m not alone in that feeling. It’s revered to escape and there comes an impeccably timed point when the allure of freedom forces us tick with restlessness and look for the first excuse to get out. I never left and the feeling never went away. In an attempt to justify my choice, I’ve found myself questioning if leaving meant anything in the first place.
Would I have been more successful in life if I got out? If I leave my childhood house, then where will home be? Even more important, who will home be? I become Dory, desperately looking for a home and forgetting exactly why I started this journey in the first place when I have all of the comforts in the world.
I’ve come to see that we associate adulting with cutting the umbilical cords of what home used to be. We cram ourselves in newer, smaller places hoping to find a quiet, non-judgemental room to let our late night food baby out. We look for comfort and can even make an effort to make a dwelling in someone else. We accept being broke all in an effort to follow this pull.
Perhaps the most important shift in the adulting journey, is realizing that our home is not a place. It does not require you to go anywhere to find, nor does it necessitate finding someone that epitomizes comfort. I realize that I left my hometown a long time ago. I left the moment I myself changed. When I made memories in new places. The moment I no longer stayed in situations or places out of comfort. The moment I found home in myself.