When someone asks me where home is, I always pause. It’s not an easy question to answer, you see.

I was born in British Columbia, but by the time I was 8, I had lived in five different towns. By 16, I was living in my eleventh house. Between 18 and 24, “home” had been six different cities in four different countries spanning two continents.

Some of my homes

Of course, others have moved more than me. It’s not a competition. I’m not complaining. I have had the most amazing, wonderful experiences in all of these different places, and I wouldn’t change it for anything.

But still, when someone asks me about my home, I have to pause and gather my thoughts.

Are they asking about where I was born? Where I have lived? Where I spent the longest? Are they asking about my town, my province, my country, my continent, or my culture?  Because when someone says “home”, they are asking about all of those things and more.

Further complicating the question is the asker. Are they also from Canada? Well, then I might say my province. They’re from the same province? I’ll name the closest thing I have to a hometown. They’re Finnish and asking about my accent? I’ll say I’m from Canada.

Home, for me, is not a place. It’s not even people. It’s a feeling of relief when I walk through the door. It’s flopping on a bed, sighing, and snuggling in. Safety, peace, and hopefully some quiet. Whenever I find that, I’m home.