I have always admired those who are able to live in different places early in their lives. To them, home seems to be a dynamic and deep feeling, a constant flow of care and passion for many aspects of their personal life. I lived in the same, small suburb for my entire life, and I feel as though I’ve been slightly cheated out of a truer understanding of what is home.
The American Airlines airplane TV sets say, “Thank you for letting us take you home.”
Why do they assume that our destination is home? Perhaps because there is not one concrete area or space that is a designated home; I know houses and bedrooms don’t cut it sometimes.
I find it funny how often we subconsciously use the word “home.” I have been at Miami for about three weeks now, and I already refer to my tiny dorm room in Hecht as my home. Yes, it is my living space for the next year, but it is not the comfy mattress that naturally forms to my body from 18 years of sleeping in the same position, or the room where countless sleepovers have been hosted and Red Sox games were watched.
The only way I can really define a home, for me, at least, is in the lyrics of “Home” by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. It is more of a romantic type of home, but it still embodies the peaceful and irreplaceable feeling of being where you belong.
There should not be any set standards for what qualifies as your home. It does not need to be a physical place, but more of a feeling when you’re warm and comfortable, and you’re at ease even for just a blink in your busy life.
Home can mean whatever to whomever — it could be your city, your house, the time spent with the ones you love — or it could simply be whenever you are truly happy.
Alexa Pappas is a freshman majoring in broadcast journalism and sports administration.