Home Really Is Where the Heart Is

What defines home? It’s a question I’ve been pondering lately.

When my mom was alive, wherever she lived was my home. Now that she’s been gone from this world for 4.5 years, home has become something else. As I age, home is less of a place and more of a feeling. But perhaps that’s what my mom’s home offered: a comforting, welcoming environment where I could relax and be completely myself. My kids might say the same about my husband and me being their home. And I can say for sure that’s how our dog, Leo, feels (haha!).

I used to think that if I found the right house on the right street in the right neighborhood, I could live there forever. Having now owned four different homes, I know that is not true. Like Goldilocks moving from house to house, I never found the right fit. The “right one” was always just out of reach. Our last home – the one we rented out before moving to Spain – is as close as I ever came to the right house. The neighborhood had all the amenities we wanted, and our home was plenty big for all four of us to spread out.

I’ve often said I was born on the wrong continent. In Spain, I’ve never felt more at home – nor more lonely. Being an immigrant is hard. Most of us land in our new countries without friends or family, and we have to embrace having only ourselves to rely on until we establish roots. We often don’t know the language or even how to do the most basic activities like grocery shopping or making doctor appointments. Despite all of that, I’ve never smiled more or felt less frustrated at the challenges here.

This past weekend, I decided to go online and find swimsuits for my daughter and me for our upcoming trip. Even something as simple (well, maybe swimsuits are never simple) as finding a swimsuit online required some extra thought. We’re still not adjusted to European sizing, and I can’t just pick the U.S. size I’d normally reach for. I have to consider measurements, which is kinda new for us.

If you were born in the United States, chances are good you do everything using Fahrenheit or imperial measurements. Maybe you’re used to reading the clock in 12-hour increments instead of military time. In Spain – and Europe more broadly – these are all different.

Each tiny change in your day-to-day adds up. It adds yet another layer of difficulty to your day-to-day.

And still … This feels like home – more than anywhere else I’ve lived. Not this apartment (although we love the views from our terrace), and maybe not even this city. But I have fallen hopelessly in love with the country of Spain and always loved the continent of Europe. There is nowhere in the U.S. I’ve ever felt that way about except Chicago, where we lived for two years many moons ago.

Home is more than the structure you live in. It’s the air you breathe, the food you eat, the people surrounding you, and the peace you feel when you step outside your four walls. It’s where you feel most yourself and the most alive.