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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.  



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