Feels like home to me

I’ve been staying in my childhood home, visiting my mum and dad. I try to come back most years to see everyone. Sleeping in my old bedroom at 55 brings up a lot of feelings—some soft and nostalgic, others more difficult to put into words. A lot has changed since I shared this room with my sister and played hide and seek with the neighbourhood kids until the streetlights came on.

Coming home is never simple. Every visit seems to stir up all the versions of myself I’ve been—like trying on old clothes to see if they still fit. There’s love here, of course. But there’s also a quiet ache. A grief, even.

Living abroad means your heart is always in two places: one where your family lives, and one where your soul feels most free. And you’re always making peace with the one you’ve chosen—for now.

The truth is, I feel incredibly lucky to have two places that feel like home. But that gift doesn’t come without its ache. You can’t live fully in both at once. This recent post I saw on Instagram by @intheworldofmari put this feeling into words so well x

The guilt of living abroad

Each time I come back, I journal, I reflect, I learn. I wonder how the woman I’ve become fits into this old version of home. Sometimes it’s seamless. Sometimes it’s a stretch. But every time, I grow a little. And I leave knowing I’ve made peace with something. The next time it will be different. The next time always brings a new lesson.

This time, something clicked. I realised I’m not meant to be finished. At 55, I don't think I’ll ever be fully grown or fully resolved—and for the first time, that doesn’t scare me. It feels freeing. I don’t need to be “done.” I just need to keep choosing myself—softly, gently—again and again.

When I moved to Melbourne 16 years ago, it felt like a new beginning. A chance to become someone new. But of course, we take ourselves with us wherever we go. Moving didn’t erase the work—it gave me the space to begin it.

Much of my creative work explores this idea of home and belonging—not just as a physical place, but as a feeling. I used to think home was somewhere I could arrive, a place I’d feel entirely known and accepted. But slowly, life has shown me something else. Home is something we carry inside us. It’s in the way we slow down, feel safe, and notice beauty in the everyday.

If you’ve ever felt torn between two places—or like you’re still becoming who you are—this is for you. You’re not alone in that in-between. Maybe we’re not meant to arrive. Maybe we’re just meant to keep growing, and keep coming home to ourselves.

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