We moved down here ten years ago. Our old home, back in Seattle, I can barely even remember
anymore. Even though I was, for the most part, raised here in Georgia, I still call Seattle home. But why?
Why miss something that I was barely a part of? The more I think about it, the more I realize why.
My parents were both born and raised in Seattle. The majority of my family was. My mom and dad
have so many memories there. I can tell by the way they talk, the way they act, that they love their
home. They miss where they grew up, with their own friends and family. I can tell that Washington is
somewhere they have a sense of belonging. Knowing that they have somewhere they can call home.
I wonder what it’s like to have a place you can call home; to have a feeling that you belong somewhere.
Though I did grow up in Georgia, I know it’s not where I belong. I’ve never really considered this place
my home. I would always refer to Seattle as my home, since I spent my first five years of my life there,
and because my parents as well as all my other family grew up there. But really, I don’t actually feel like
that’s where I really belong.
Seeing how my family feels about a place that they grew up in, it makes me wonder if I’ll ever feel that
way about somewhere. Sure it must seem silly to some that I talk about how I wish I felt connected to a
certain place. Because what difference does it make? Why does it matter if there is a place one can call
their own? Why should I feel like I belong? Well, you tell me. What does your home mean to you?
To me, having a home means having somewhere to go when you’re lost. It’s somewhere to grow up
and be familiar with your surroundings. It’s kind of like a sanctuary, a place of security and comfort. If
one was to venture to far away, and get lost or lonely, you can always find your way back to that one
place where you know you’re welcomed. Were you’re familiar with the area, the people, the way things work. Somewhere that you know you’ll always be safe.
So why don’t I feel like where I live now is my home? I’ve lived here for ten years, I am slightly familiar
with the place, I’ve made a lot of friends, done great things with the people here, yet I still feel odd here.
As if I’m way out of my place. If I don’t find this place home, what is my home? I sometimes like to stop
and think of all the places I’d like to live. To think of all the places I’d like to be able to call my home and
to know that I’m safe there. Maybe one day I’ll find somewhere. Like they say: “There’s no place like
home.”