It’s a funny feeling, not being at home. A feeling I have always found difficult to analyse and therefore mistrusted. But the feeling of having a home, of knowing where home is… that is an entirely different kind of feeling. It is warm and powerful.
Having been born and raised in Spain, I cannot consider myself a true third culture kid. That is not to say I don’t have identity issues (read: belonging). There comes a point in one’s life, however, when identity stops being that much of a problem, and home is where one feels comfortable. By searching for comfort you can therefore make yourself at home wherever you go. And I find comfort in two things: stability and good company.
That is why the place where I come from calls to me strongly as “home”: it is full of comfort – full of things I know and people I love. But I now realise that there are more things to be known and people to be loved, so I can have more than one home. And that’s OK. It’s a warm and powerful feeling.
Before leaving Spain and coming to study in the UK I wrote a poem which my brother put to music. At the time it was a song about the courage to leave behind all that I knew and embrace all that I didn’t. Today it still holds true as an ode to home: that place of memories and comfort.