I went back home to Los Angeles last week. The home of my past selves. The home of my elementary and middle school self, who was joyous and carefree and destined for greatness. The home of my high school self, whose mind was ever expanding and whose heart felt perpetually bruised. The home of my post-college self, who had a burgeoning career she loved and a boyfriend she loved and friends she loved in a city she loved. So many selves contained in photos and diaries, coursework and notes passed in class. Selves written into the bedsheets, into the rough and fading dusty rose carpet that has forever cradled that floor, into the piles upon piles of mementos that I can’t seem to throw away. So many selves that are intimately familiar, yet so far gone.
It’s hard to go back to that house in Los Angeles. To enjoy the things I still love deeply about the city without free falling down the rabbit hole of my past. At 24, I left all that history behind and made a new home for myself in London. The city magnetized me, drew me to it and activated me in ways I could never have dreamed. At times, those two years in London were devastating and inconceivably challenging, yet I somehow managed to show up for myself like I never had before. I built the most incredible home, fell in love with a city, fell in love with food, fell in love with amazing friends and communities and conversations. And then, because of a situation well beyond my control, I had to leave.
In the two years following my move back to the States, I would often tell people that I left my heart in London. But if home is where the heart is and my heart was 5,500 miles away, where did that leave me?
There are so many things that can make a place feel like home. Comfort, belonging, community, ease. Home can smell like pine trees or eucalyptus or mothballs or ocean air. Home can feel like a lover’s embrace or the squeeze of a mother’s hand. It can be the taste of empanadas or matzo ball soup. It can be the sinking into a well worn armchair or sitting atop a vista overlooking the city where you grew into you. It’s strange now to say I’m going home when I take a trip down to LA and then to again say I’m going home when I get into the car to drive back up to the Bay. But that’s another thing about home: it is multiplicity, evolving, physical and emotional, transient and eternal all at the same time.
The making and leaving and re-making of homes is one aspect of adulthood that I was definitively unprepared for. No one tells you how challenging and joyous and heartbreaking and perpetual it is.
Through all of this, I’m coming to learn one essential and not often discussed thing: at the end of the day, the most important home I can make and return to is — surprisingly — within myself. When everything else is in chaos or falls away, if you can sit with yourself, be with your breath, and hold yourself tenderly, you’ll ultimately be okay. There are so many reasons to become best friends with yourself and to love yourself unconditionally, as hard as that may be. But listen: if home truly is where the heart is — which I believe it to be — and your heart resides firmly inside your chest, then the best and most important home you can make is with yourself. And the best part about it is that it’s a home you can count on, a home that grows with you, and a home you never have to leave.
Originally published at www.pollinatejournal.com on August 16, 2016.
Originally published at medium.com