Home is supposed to be where the heart is. But what happens when your heart packs its bags and falls in love with someplace else? Many students face this dilemma when moving away from their hometowns to pursue an education, and I believe I’m no exception. But what makes a hometown no longer feel like home?
I didn’t notice it happening right away. Freshman year was moving so fast--one long stretch of welcome events, dining hall dinners and late nights with people I had only just met but already trusted with my secrets. When Labor Day rolled around, going home felt natural. Everyone around me was so excited to head back, and while I didn’t quite feel the same way, I knew that it was something I needed to do.
I packed a small bag and took the familiar drive back with some friends. When I got home, I stepped through the door expecting the same comfort I had always known.
But after three hours, one reheated plate of food and a silent scroll through my phone, I was itching to leave.
Thankfully, my best friend was also home for break and had to go to Columbia to pick something up. When he told me that he was about to leave, I asked him if he would be able to drop me off at school. He was slightly confused about why I wanted to go back, but he agreed anyway.
So I repacked my things and headed back to Columbia. My mother had been out, so she didn’t realize I had left until she called me. When I told her I was already on my way back to school, she paused for a moment, then quietly asked, “Did you not want to come home and see me?”
The question sank deeper than I had expected. It wasn’t angry, just…honest. A mirror holding up something that I hadn’t fully admitted to myself: I was starting to feel more at home somewhere else.
It surprised me how quickly campus started to feel like home. It wasn’t just the newfound freedom I had, though that played part. It was the small routines that made the days feel like my own. My favorite spot to sit and people watch in Russell, late night walks from Cookout with friends that I had only known for a month and the way that my dorm smelled like dryer sheets and food, but in a way that made me feel safe.
There was something exciting about building my life and routine from scratch. I didn’t feel the need to be defined by who I was back home; I was just me. That freedom made it easier for me to breathe.
But realizing that made me feel guilty, especially after my mom’s question. It wasn’t that I didn’t love her, or that I didn’t appreciate home. I was just growing, and the version of me that was taking shape didn’t quite fit into the space I left behind.
I even started to notice the small cracks in conversations with people from my hometown. There were references that I didn’t understand, stories that I wasn’t around for. The disconnect was hard to explain, even to myself.
Over time though, I started to view home differently. I stopped expecting it to feel the same and I had to let myself grieve over that. But I also started to appreciate the parts that stayed the same--like the way my mom always cooks my favorite food for dinner, or how my little brother runs to hug me.
My mom and I had more honest conversations about it. We both realized that this was an adjustment, that we were both missing something. Even though I couldn’t be at home as much as she wanted, I tried to be present when I was.
I used to think of home as one single place, a fixed point on a map that could never change. But I now see it more like a feeling. Home is where I feel seen, where I can be myself, where I feel safe. Sometimes that’s back in my old neighborhood. Sometimes it’s in the crowded chaos of Greene St.
And sometimes, more often than I expected, it’s in the quiet phone calls with my mom; catching up on life from miles away, learning how to hold on and let go at the same time.
Maybe the heart doesn’t leave home, it just learns how to stretch across places, holding on to both where we came from and where we’re going.
