I’m sitting in Heathrow waiting for my gate to open, and I’m thinking about this trip back home. Is it home? I’m not asking this question to be deep or philosophical; I’m genuinely unsure.
People always say that home is where the heart is, and if that’s the case, my home is London.
If home is where my family is, then it’s all around the world.
If home is where I grew up, then it’s LaPorte, Indiana.
If home is where I spend most of my year, then it’s Athens, Ohio.
If home is wherever I’m with you, then I don’t have a home, because the “you” in my life doesn’t exist.
London feels like my home, but it lacks my family and friends from my childhood and college years. I have a house in LaPorte where my parents live, and I have a house in Athens where my friends and I will live. Is home where I feel like I belong? Is home where I want to belong?
I don’t know the answers to these questions that are plaguing my brain. So here I sit, waiting to go back to America. I’m going back to everything I know where everything will be the same but not really. I’ve grown over the past five months. I have traveled places I only ever dreamt of traveling to. I lived in the greatest city in the world and left my heart there. I found myself after I feared I was gone forever (mentally speaking; I was never physically lost). I found what true happiness meant and have never been happier. I survived.
And now I’m leaving, and I’m scared I’ll lose what I gained. But I won’t let that happen. I can’t let that happen.
Studying abroad was the best experience of my life, and I would never trade it for the world. Goodbye London– I’ll love you forever and miss you terribly.