What does home mean to me? 

In all my life, I’ve lived in so many houses in so many places. I was conceived in Hawaii, born in Texas, lived in Haiti, and two islands in the Philippines (speaking two different Filipino languages), stopped over in England for a few months to live with an aunt before finally settling in San Francisco at the age of 22. 

Where am I from? Where did I thrive? Can I say I’m from all these corners of the world? That I’m not sure. I was everywhere, but had no single place to call my childhood home.

My parents didn’t stay in one place after I left either. I barely have any childhood memorabilia that many people seem to have. I’ve lost most of what I had kept growing up—all the journals, books, stuffed animals, letters, little things from everywhere — all gone. 

All my stuff was moved a few times after I’d already left home, and I don’t know what eventually happened to them. Did they get thrown away? Does someone else out there have my things and treasure them like I used to? I imagine my favorite books on a bookshelf somewhere, gathering dust, alone, lonely. Or my diaries and letters, pages brittle and yellow, most likely stuck together, ink smudged. What about my old stuffed animals? Are they gone? They must be gone, right? Maybe they are rotting in a dumpster somewhere? Unloved??

All I have left of my past are my memories. I barely have anything tangible that I cherished. 

I sometimes feel like I have no roots, but I feel steady. I know where my home is now. I am where I belong. I may not be able to step into a childhood home and see my old room with my favorite, unique pieces in life, but I still remember them. And in turn, I remember me. 

Home is where I get to be me.