I never realized that the concept of “home” would play such a critical role in my personality, identity and life. I remember moving out of my childhood home when I was 15 and using a sharpie to write “a house is not a home” underneath the stairs where only a true excavator would find it. I wonder if it’s still there. Knowing that is is would give me some sense of ownership of that house, even though we were evicted shortly after my parent’s marriage fell apart.

My childhood home

I came back from Washington, DC yesterday and realized I’m more perplexed by the idea than ever. On one hand, my mom lives there, some of my best friends live there, and I can navigate my neighborhood with a blindfold and a fresh hit of poppers clouding my brain and still not get lost. But on another hand, I still feel the pull of San Francisco, with my sister and my oldest friends.

I’m pretty sure everyone is getting tired of me talk about how lost I feel when it comes to figuring it all out. Lots of people roam the world, untethered by the seemingly extraneousness of a home. But it is something I can’t let go, and I’m starting to realize that although San Francisco is still something I’m warming up as I wear it, DC isn’t home, either.

Maybe I’ll always feel slightly fragmented. And that’s okay. With cheap flights and webcams and opportunities to go back all the time, DC isn’t so far from the place I’ve decided to nest.

All I know is that I made a choice, and with each passing day I’m realizing it was the right one.


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