One of my first childhood memories occurred in my kindergarten class on the first day of school. My teacher asked us to sit down and map out the route from school to home. I remember picking up a shiny new crayon and dutifully sketching the road from my elementary school to my house. When we’re young, the concept of home is so easy. It’s a concrete place. It’s an address, a house with a green front yard, flowers blooming, and a dog waiting at the door. It’s cookies in the oven after a hard day in third grade, and a Disney movie in the VCR. So at what point does the concept of “home” completely change without us recognizing it?

The other day, I was introducing myself to a friend’s parent for the first time. We exchanged the usual pleasantries, and she then asked me a question that totally caught me off guard. She said, “where’s home for you?” and then looked at me with anticipation. My kindergarten-aged self would have immediately rattled off my address, complete with zip code. However, my current self was very confused.

Home for me is my college. It’s studying until 2 a.m. with friends, crying about boys while watching sappy romantic comedies, and dancing on weekend nights with all my new best friends that I've just met about 20 minutes ago. Home is cramming for finals, being worried about my future, all while taking some secret pleasure in only being required to learn for the next few years of my life. It’s my dorm room, with its too-small bed and toilets that flush so loud the whole hall can hear. It’s my roommate and best friend, and the way we interact that makes it seem like we’ve known each other much longer than just one year. It’s that comforting feeling in knowing that I’m on my own, finding my way, and yet with people around to support me in my semi-adulthood.

Home for me is also with my family in my hometown. It’s coming home during winter break and seeing that my parents have put up the Christmas tree. It’s a home-cooked meal shared with the people who have supported me my entire life. Home is an encouraging phone call from my mom when I have no idea what to do with my life. It's time spent with childhood friends, and feeling like you've never missed a beat. It’s a day spent with my sister, shopping for used books and watching documentaries on Netflix. It’s being able to step in my childhood house and know that I don’t have to be anyone but myself. It’s letting the messy parts of me show, and not having to worry that someone won’t understand or accept them.

Home is also where I see myself in the future. It’s thoughts of my career, with my own desk and a shiny nameplate with an important title. It’s my future spouse and our children, running barefoot on the lawn in the summertime. Home is the house that I will raise my children in, providing warm hugs and comfort food always. It’s the hope that one day I will be capable of creating a life of my own; that one day I’ll be able to find love and call someone else home.

Home for me is with Christ, too. It’s losing myself in prayer, and knowing that He understands. It’s turning all my worries over to Him, and having that wave of calm wash over me. It’s trusting God enough to give myself over to Him fully, and allow Him to use me in order to show others how wonderful His love is. Home is trusting something bigger than myself to deliver me from harm, and to love me like no one else ever could.

So, yeah, the concept of “home” is one that gets a lot more fluid as we get older. And at first, realizing this made me really uneasy. If home can’t be defined as easily as when we were younger, can we ever get back to that unadulterated feeling of belonging and security? It took me a while, but I’ve finally realized that different doesn’t always mean worse. So while our concept of home might change, it could just change for the better. If Thomas Wolfe is right, and we can’t go home again, we might just find something better to call home after all.