I’ve been on the run — an escape from “home” — since I was probably sixteen.
I noticed early on that I didn’t quite fit, that I didn’t belong. I wanted something else. I was craving more. I knew exactly what I was running from, but never what I was seeking. I carried values, ideals, and dreams that no one around me seemed to share. I was breaking under expectations from people who thought they knew me — but didn’t.
Now, I wonder if all of it was just an illusion?

I’ve been running for more than three years now. And honestly, these past three years could fill books and books with stories, mistakes, and the wisdom that came from them. The lessons were necessary — because without them, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. I’m deeply grateful for all of it, even though some of those experiences broke me into pieces.

The longest I’ve been “home” — which, for me right now, simply means being in the same country as my family — was four months. I couldn’t stay longer. I needed to leave again. I wasn’t ready to return yet. There were still feelings, still emotions I had to work through, and I couldn’t do that in the same environment that broke me in the first place. I thought I had grown stronger, but I wasn’t strong enough just yet.

The feeling of not belonging only grew louder. Being back, everything felt too small — like I had outgrown this place. I met versions of myself that fit “home” even less than before, and I wasn’t willing to lose them. Those four months were filled with a lot of anger, mostly because I didn’t know how to hold all of it at once. Anger toward myself, and everyone around me. Nobody knew how to help me. No one experienced what I experienced. And I wasn’t very good at asking for help or talking about my emotions.

Since then, I’ve become calmer. More grounded. More aware of myself. More outspoken. I’d love to say I can handle anything now — but anyone on a growth journey knows that’s not true. It all comes and goes in waves. You learn how to ride them, how to move with the tide — but that doesn’t mean you won’t fall into the water every now and then.

Over the past three years, I’ve learned to call many places, people, feelings, and moments “home.” It opened my eyes to the idea that almost anything — or anyone — can become home. But it also blurred the lines. There isn’t just one home anymore. There are many. And how am I supposed to know which one to choose? What is home, really? Sometimes it feels like I’m lost at sea, unsure which direction to swim to finally find land.

Somehow, the tides have turned. The very thing I was trying to escape is now what I’m trying to find again. I wish I had left breadcrumbs along the way — it would make finding my way back easier. But do I even want to return to the home I came from? Or am I meant to build one of my own?

That’s what people do, isn’t it? They find a partner — or do it on their own — settle down somewhere they love, and build a home. With or without family. That’s what my parents did. That’s what my grandparents did. That’s what my brothers are doing.
So why does it feel so hard for me to find a place — or a person — to call home? I truly believed I had found someone to build a life with. But sometimes life has different plans.

There’s a song called “Montana” by Chance Peña — one I’ve been listening to, maybe to a slightly unhealthy degree. Two lines keep looping in my head:

And these lines have been sitting with me, because they explain so much of what I’ve been trying to understand all along.

For me, home means peace — with myself and my surroundings. It’s waking up without the urge to change something. Without the urge to leave.
Maybe home isn’t land at all — maybe it’s finally knowing which way I’m swimming. And maybe it’s not a destination, but a journey once again. So just keep swimming, just keep swimming.

I’m ready to come home now. I’m ready to be whole.
That’s the biggest realization I’ve had this year. And it hurts to admit that everything I went through over the past three years was worth it — just to arrive at this feeling, this longing, now.

Ready to settle down. Ready to build a home, to build a life. But I’m reluctant to do it alone. I want a partner to share it with — the beauty, the laughter, the sun and the rain, the heat and the cold, the love.

I’m ready to come home, even though I don’t know where it’s going to be or who I’ll be sharing it with. But at least I know this: I want to be home. I want to be whole.

I’ll keep on swimming — until we meet again.