Oh man. I’ve searched high and low for a place to call home. Even though I was born and raised in Georgia, home was anything but. I mean, anything.
Home was the tiny studio apartment in South Korea where I stuffed myself, a dog, two cats and that smelly litter box. I lived on the 10th floor of a high rise that was as industrial as the construction cranes outside.
There were days I stared out the window wondering where I was supposed to be in life. My chair magically transformed into a safe space where I could just exist.
Home was the hostel in Europe I stayed at with my friend Lorenzo. We jubilantly traveled Napoli and Amsterdam together as if we were high school besties who hadn’t seen each other in years.
I walked those cobblestone alleys of Europe like a zombie transfixed on what “could be.” Being lost among various cultures and languages, I felt the same as everyone else.
Home was the Medina in Morocco, a large outdoor maze of shops and vendors. I purposefully turned off my phone so I couldn’t access GPS and just drifted through it aimlessly.
I came upon two young boys playing with the rubble from the remains of a building that once stood. They were happy- much happier than me- and laughing together, and I was suddenly very jealous of them.
Of course, traveling to 28 countries, four continents, and many states here in America has been a beautiful adventure (I don't say this to boast). I can never replace the rare experiences I’ve had.
But the most important lesson I have taken from the story that is my passport is that home is wherever you put your whole heart and soul.