I love to travel. I love forcing myself to get out of my comfort zone and I try my best to experience as much as I can. I love going away to school. I love having my own home away from home, and the freedom that it gives me. I am able to have my own life and push myself to make new friends and establish new relationships.

I can never stay in one place for too long. I start to get restless. I’ve grown to understand that I need constant change. I need to feel like I’m growing otherwise I start to get depressed and antsy. I crave that sense of adventure, and the rush that discovering new places offers me. But even through all of this, I still get homesick.

I miss my bed, and my bedroom. I miss having my own space to be myself and have all of my things near me. I miss passing by places on the street with a lifetime worth of memories to me. I miss waiting for my parents to come home from work and filling them in on my day. I miss getting tapioca late at night with my friends. I miss being surrounded with people who know me and my story, and not having to explain myself because they already know who I am.

I love leaving. It’s so easy for me to be on the go now, but every now and then I need to go home and recharge. I feel the need to go back to my roots and remember where I came from. I need to hang out with my cats, and gossip about my friends to my mom. I need to go for a run in the trails behind my dad’s house. I need to curl up on the couch with a big plate of food and binge watch Netflix with my family.

I’ve been to the other side of the world. I’ve crossed the canals in Venice. I’ve watched across the Great Wall of China. I’ve had fish and chips in London, and gone to a Luau on the islands of Hawaii. But none of those places compare to sitting around my dining room table and roasting my brother with my mom. It doesn’t compare to watching my little sister sing and dance to the songs off of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. I would trade all the adventures in the world if it meant never having to say goodbye to the wall marking my brother and I’s heights from the first year we moved in. I will never tire of the drive past my old high school and to my dad’s house. No view will ever compare to the view across the lake in the neighborhood next to mine. No food will ever compare to my step dad’s ribs and mother’s famous rolls. No feeling will ever compare to walking through my front door after being gone for too long. Nothing will ever compare to the feeling of home.