The Home We Carry

After reading stories of people moving, uprooting, and redefining home, Roberta reflects on her own journey—traveling, backpacking, and discovering that home isn’t a place, but something we carry within us.

“We are our own home, and we will always be there to comfort ourselves. Just as the snail under the rain.”

After reading these stories of our friends making big moves, I am reminded that home is something we carry within us.

We travel far and wide, immersing ourselves in the world, searching for where we fit, finding the roles we are meant to play. Yet, no matter where we go, we remain ourselves. The person you were in your childhood home is the same person you are across the world, on an island, or in a city where no one knows your name.

When I first left my childhood home, I wasn’t prepared for the reality that it would never feel the same again. That home no longer belonged to me in the way it once did. My new place in Florida became my safe space, but when that lease ended, I was left with nothing but myself. No permanent address, no place to return to — just my own shell. And maybe that was enough.

Like a snail, we carry our home.

A snail does not rush; it moves at its own pace, trusting that it will arrive where it needs to be. It carries its shelter on its back, retreating when it must, resting when the world feels too loud. And yet, it continues to move forward. 

When I was backpacking through Europe, I learned how little I actually needed. Everything essential fit into a single backpack. And even then, those were just things — a toothbrush, shoes, clothes, a camera. All useful, yet all replaceable.

At its core, traveling is an act of seeking — seeking something different, something beyond routine. These experiences humble us, revealing the countless ways one can live the same life. There is beauty in this. There is freedom. But there are also moments of solitude, when we realize that we are both our own shelter and, at times, our own loneliness.

The more we travel, the lighter we learn to pack. Not just in luggage, but in expectations, in attachments. The real weight we carry is our own inner peace.

Over time, our shelters change. Sometimes home is an airport floor. Sometimes it is a shared bunk bed in a city where no one knows your name. And in those moments, you realize that home was never a place. It was always you.

May we nourish our shelters, our vessels for this life. That home may be the most important one to care for. When we tend to ourselves, the world reflects our inner state. Imagine how the world would look if we all truly nurtured ourselves with care and intention.

As humans, we seek belonging. We are drawn to connection. But the trouble begins when we start looking for our sense of home only in others. The people we meet along the way, we take with us in our hearts. We become bits and pieces of all the places we’ve loved, the people we’ve met, the moments we’ve lived. And we learn to admire, and let go.

“Now I have a new home where I used to be considered a tourist.

Now I’m a proper tourist where I used to be at home.

People are home, but people are changing.

Family is home, but family believes you’ve already grown.

What is home, then? Where do I feel safe? Where am I headed?

Home… home… home…” — S.M.

The watering of our own gardens will bring the butterflies.