In Los Angeles, every time you hint at changing up your life or going anywhere, the most popularly asked question that follows is, “Ohhh are you going home?” They might as well spell it out just to increase the drama. H-O-M-E is a four letter word here, as in giving up and heading back the way I came. And for some, I guess that’s how it works. But personally, I don’t get it. What, exactly, does not qualify this place I’ve made my life for the past 7 years as home? My childhood friends have scattered from where we grew up; their families have moved, around the country, and around the world. I see old pals more now in new cities than I do when I visit the town I grew up in. Buildings there have been raised and torn down and almost nothing looks the same as it did 20 years ago. And as my 29th birthday approaches, I have realized that your roots and your home are different.
My roots will always be in Philadelphia. I will never forget that. I will also never forget that ice cream “sprinkles” are really called Jimmies and that a proper cheese steak is made wit' Cheez Wiz. That is the foundation I am built on. But my Home is my apartment in LA. Home is the green hilltop where I went to college. Home is all the random cities where some of my best friends now reside. I have made new friends in Chicago, Toronto, Paris, and Poland (shoutout to you, grandpa), and I joke that I have a free place to stay almost everywhere I go, but it’s true. I carry my Home with me in the things that make me feel like me. My must have hair products and moisturizers, my green tea, my favorite pillowcase and pj pants, my makeup collection (you guessed it, all in Z Palettes) and of course my iPhone and the charger I forget almost every. single. time. I hop on a plane.
So, as cliché as it sounds, I’ve found that Home is really where your Heart is. Home is not always static. Home can be in many places. All at the same time. In fact, I prefer it that way.