A funny thing happened the other day. I was mentally ticking through my to do list of errands and had this flash of a thought: I can’t wait to get home to Sydney. It sounds ridiculous because I’ve never been there, but somewhere between all the thinking and planning we’ve been doing for the move, my brain has registered Australia as “home.”
I’ve got a complicated relationship with the concept of “home.” To date, I’ve lived in ten cities across four U.S. states and two countries, and I’ve traveled to many, many more. Let me preemptively answer the question I know is forming in your head: No, my parents were not in the military. Theirs is a bi-cultural marriage, spiked with a healthy dose of wanderlust. I’ve inherited that nomadic blood. Scott jokes that I have a mental egg timer that goes off about every three years, prompting me to seek out something new.
Here’s the thing: When you’ve traveled as much as I have (and continue to do!), “home” stops being a physical place and turns into a concept that anchors itself in relationships. It’s based on interactions with people, and they don’t evaporate simply because you may happen to be in different parts of the world.
Friends and family here have been asking: When will you be coming home? My answer: We may very well come back to San Diego, but home will always be where Scott and I are on our latest adventure.