Next week I fly back home. After being ‘home’ for almost one month. These past weeks I’ve been thinking a lot about what home is for me.
Yes, I said home is where the heart is many times. Because I believed it. Or because I really wanted to believe it. It feels like a reassurance, like my mother used to tell me when I was sad or hurt “everything will be all right”. No clue how, but I believed her and felt better immediately.
This move brought me so many things already. Being together, the time to really be there for both my kids, the possibility to hit a wall and be brave enough to find myself (the good and the bad). Drive (a little). Start a blog. Space, time and opportunities to get better at taking photos. Learn how to cook (a bit better). The knowledge I am stronger and more flexible than I thought (well, I sort of already knew that, I just proved to myself I was right).
But also the realisation that home isn’t where the heart is. Home is where you feel you. Where you can breathe. Where you feel save. Where you do instead of think. Where you are a ‘you’, next to ‘us’. Where parts of your life are that existed long before that us.
Don’t worry. It’s okay. I love to be us. Me and Mr Husband talk. He knows me, I know him. He’s allowed to borrow my heart, because above all I want to be with him.
It’s just liberating to say it out loud:
I’m happy. I’m just happier when my heart is home.