Home
More than just where I lay my hat
I had made the decision months ago. It started with a feeling. A scary, untethered feeling. Knowing that life was about to happen to me unless I changed course. But it was also a feeling of certainly. Certainty that if I wanted to, I could make it happen. I could will it into existence. Everything I have wanted in life has been like that. You get what you go after. I’ve never been one to wait on the sidelines.
And it was done the moment I hit send. Accepted the offer. Agreed to move more than 10,000km to another country. Another life. Leave one home behind hoping with all my heart to find another. But I didn’t know then what I know now. Home was never a place.
Amsterdam was the place I grew up. Not from a child to an adult. No, that happened in other places. But it was the place I became the best version of myself. Bought my first house, grew my family from 2 to 4, accelerated my career, cemented my values, spoke my mind, invested so much in my relationships; invested even more in myself. Lost my mind during the pandemic, only to find it again in the most unlikely of endeavours. Where I conquered what seemed impossible, started a dream and failed in so many more. Where I lost my oldest friend, 2 colleagues I didn’t know as well as I should have, and named my son after the death of my cousin.
When I got on the airplane bound for Singapore with my 3 year old, I knew what I was leaving behind. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. Setting up in a new place, alone, with a toddler in tow. But zero to one has always been my jam. So I didn’t just take one cautious step in front of the other. I ran. I have a feeling I’m still running.
A year into this epic journey and it’s time to reflect. What am I running from? Or what am I running towards?
Home. Discovering what home means to me.
I have come to believe that we all need two homes. For many this is the home they are born into and then the home they create for themselves. To some people home is a place. A roof they grew up under or one they built, curated or carefully scraped into existence. Or a neighbourhood, city or country they feel a sense of belonging in. Belonging and acceptance. To others home is a person, a pet, a community or family. Tethered to them where ever they go.
Why two? Because no one home can give us everything we need. No one place, person, animal, community or family can be everything to us. To think that is unfair. A huge burden to place on that one home. How can one home live up to all that? Yes, we should be lucky if we have even one. Fortunate and privileged. Grateful, above all else. One should be enough. But more often than not, it isn’t.
And without both there is a void. A sense of missing. Of longing. Of loneliness. Something inexplicable that haunts us. It’s the missing of a home. A second home.
Now this is not a simple game of addition. To have one roof over your head and one family you love deeply does not necessarily equal two homes. It all depends on what home means to you. That is something you must discover for yourself.
Moving from India to Australia, to London, Denmark, Amsterdam and now Singapore, has helped me to finally discover what home means to me. Home to me was never a place. It has always been a feeling. The feeling of being gently sifted — the unloved parts of me being allowed to flow back into the Earth, while the flecks of gold are kept to be treasured. Celebrated. Loved. A feeling devoid of performance, expectation and obligation. A deep human connection. And also what all homes must have — a sense of belonging and acceptance. That is what I call home.
Sometimes I have found home in a book. A world built only in print on soft, worn pages held together by thread and glue. A home discovered by the choice to keep turning the page. Or in that very first instance of diving into a cool ocean, pool or lake. Where there is no thought, only immersion. Acceptance. And feeling. But then I surface. Only to find that even in that instance the real world around me has moved on. And the feeling of home has moved on with it. Nothing lasts. Nothing is finished. And nothing is perfect. Wabi-sabi.
I have one lasting home. A very happy one. One I truly cherish and carry with me wherever I go. From place to place to place. That home is constantly changing and evolving into everything I need it to be. For me. And I hope I am also home to those I love. That feeling of contentment and deep-rooted fulfilment that remains despite the passage of time, seasons, arguments, pandemics, wars, downturns, job losses and financial uncertainty.
But my second home? That I fear I have lost. Perhaps I have been running for so long that it fell out of my pocket, initially unnoticed. Then observed in panic as it is being carried away on the wind and chase as I might, it always remains just out of reach. The feeling that has replaced it is one of loneliness. Of lost connection.
But there is also a feeling of certainty. That I will find a second home. I shall dream it and then I shall will it back into existence. Because I have never been one to wait on the sidelines. And because the very best times in my life are times when I was certain I had two homes. Two distinct, overlapping yet independent connections. A place and people who gave me that feeling. Of a lover and a friend.
From one human to another, thanks for reading. It’s been emotional.
