Home is where I am.
Home isn’t the place that I was born, but the place I discovered who I really am.
Home is the place I was told I wasn’t good enough to become an artist.
Home is driving in my car, consumed by wanderlust to drive across the country.
Home is interacting with people in small towns and sharing and hearing personal stories.
Home is where I sat in sorrow for months when my girlfriend broke my heart.
Home is playing drinking games and bonding with my roommates between classes.
Home is what I left behind when I dropped out of high school.
Home is where I cried when I received my first college acceptance letter.
Home is in my studio, laboring away alone for hours to make my dream come true.
Home is working anonymously to help feed and rebuild the lives of people less fortunate than me.
Home is in the middle of the aisles in department stores, fighting off other shoppers during black Friday sales.
Home is the island on the other side of the globe I watched get decimated by earthquakes and tsunami, worried for the safety of my relatives.
Home is where I stood surrounded by corn fields, irrigation systems, and grain silos to watch the golden sky fade into the night.
Home is watching the news to learn that the city I once helped rebuild got hit by another catastrophic tragedy.
Home is wondering whether my house in the middle of nowhere will get torn up by tornadoes.
Home is where my wife first said “no,” but months later switched to “yes” as we laid in the dark.
Home is where I watched my mother breathe her last breath losing her battle to cancer.
Home is where I watched my relatives fight over my mother’s assets.
Home is when I tried to convince myself of how strong I was mentally, when I wasn’t at all.
Home is training at 4:30 a.m., getting yelled at by the drill sergeant and eating breakfast before dawn.
Home is completing the 15-mile march through the middle of the night and finally taking off my boots while sitting side-by-side with fellow soldiers covered in sweat, too tired to move.
Home is playing video game tournaments and ordering in Chinese food delivery with coworkers during our shifts at Sega Dreamcast of America.
Home is playing basketball on rooftops overlooking the San Francisco skyline during my lunch break.
Home is being lost in the Chicago streets in the middle of the night and feeling content.
Home is being greeted by residents of New Orleans post-hurricane Katrina at 7 a.m. and never forgetting the words, “Thank you so much for being here.”
Home is the Chelsea art district of Manhattan, the brick buildings of Brooklyn, and longing to move there to start my art career.
Home is moving to Seattle without knowing anyone or anything there.
Home is the place I was, I am, and I will be.