When I applied to college, now two decades ago, I had to write a series of essays. One posed two quotes — one from the title of a Thomas Wolfe novel, and the other from Robert Frost — and asked the applicant to pick one and defend it.
“Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” — Robert Frost
“You can never go home again.” — Thomas Wolfe
I don’t remember what I wrote back then. But I have thought about that question many times since. Most particularly, I’ve thought about this: “What does home mean? And how do I create a sense of home for myself and my kids?”
On one hand, home is the place where you are known and understood. Home is where you belong and fit, no matter how long it’s been or where you’ve been. On the other hand, home is the place where your people are and where you choose to belong.
On one hand, when you return to your roots, there are parts of you that are known differently, perhaps more fully, than in any other location. On the other hand, returning to your roots can feel jarring because of all the ways you have grown and changed since you left — and this isn’t always acknowledged.
We are currently down south, visiting family in North Carolina and Virginia. It is the place of my origins — my roots — and, as such, it is very familiar. The accent, the food, the slower pace, the humidity, the culture, the memories — and the mosquitoes — all come rushing back whenever we visit.
But it is no longer my home. After 20 years away, I’m too liberal, too direct, too fast-talking-and-driving, and too salt-sugar-and-fat-limiting to truly belong. I’ve called Boston home for coming up on 15 years now. (Man, I wish I’d had the Moving to Boston Guide back then.) It is my place, my people, my safe spot, and my cultural and geographic identity.
Even so, I don’t know if I will ever truly be Bostonian enough to really belong to Boston. Even my children, Boston-born-and-raised, don’t have an accent and aren’t true townies. We speak too slowly, we talk to and smile at strangers, and we still miss southern BBQ and fried chicken.
For a long time, I thought these contrasts meant we didn’t have a home anywhere. That we had roots in the south, and we sort of belonged in Boston, but nowhere “fully got us.” But as I’ve aged, I’ve come to the conclusion that I was thinking about “home” all wrong.
Home isn’t a place. Home isn’t geographical. Home is the people who have journeyed along with you. Home is where you have found your niches and carved out space to belong. Home is where you have allowed yourself to be fully known and have found yourself fully welcomed. Home is your village — scattered across the geographic paths that you have walked — where you instantly fit and belong.
There are places in Boston that are home to me. The paths that I run along the Charles River and through the neighborhoods. Apartments we’ve lived in, restaurants and parks, churches and playgrounds where we’ve spent a lot of time. There are people who have seen me at my worst and still loved me and held me through the hardest seasons. But those also exist in each of the places that I have lived and are no less sweet or dear when I return to them.
Home isn’t a place. You can’t return home. If you choose to, you are always able to be at home. Home is a mosaic, woven through time and space, each thread telling a part of your larger narrative. When we look for total belonging in just one place, our story becomes smaller and less full. Embracing the parts that feel like home in all places — your roots and your wings — leads to a far richer experience.