This didn’t feel like home anymore

This was a harsh statement, one that had taken me years to assume.

Of course, I felt a sense of ease hearing Spanish around me, especially the familiar rhythms of Honduran Spanish, steeped in its Nahuatl influence. My heart skipped a beat when I saw my mother at the airport. No matter the distance, she remained my favorite person.

I missed my uncle's vast knowledge—he could talk effortlessly about swordfish or the major ports of Honduras in the 1980s. I cherished how, regardless of political beliefs, my family always jumped at the chance to see me. And I was overjoyed to see Olivia again. She’d been working in our household since before I was born, caring for what I ate, how I felt. There is no greater feeling than being cared for—except maybe the feeling of her freshly made tortillas.

My childhood room, with its ever-changing purple walls, was like a timeline of my life. Souvenirs from travels, old photos of friends and loves, memories layered like sediment. Oddly, the room reeked of Taiwan—mementos from my years there were scattered throughout. I even found Uncle Oso’s handwritten letters, his beautiful penmanship still intact. His intense energy lingers in the house, and in me. His presence remains, especially in who I’ve become.

I remembered every dish I learned to cook before David became our household chef. The songs that scored my adolescence. The travelers we hosted. The color schemes my mother let me paint and repaint. This house held everything.

And yet, not even the weight of these memories could make it feel like home anymore.

As long as I can remember, I wanted to fly. I wanted to see other worlds, ask different questions, taste foreign food, experience love in new forms. Even when I was young, I knew that if I followed the traditional path—grow up, make money, reproduce—I’d only be replicating my karmic angst.

I wanted to be a foreigner, and somehow ended up feeling foreign in my own country.

Ironically, the more I traveled, the more Honduran I felt. Every telenovela, urban legend, and Catholic wedding I once judged became a part of me. So did the people who called my upbringing “quirky,” or the boys who wanted to kiss me but also change me. Nostalgia became a coping mechanism, a balm for the distance.

It was only from afar, while missing it terribly, that I truly learned to love my country.

Now, when I hear the songs I once rolled my eyes at, I shed a tear—they remind me of sunshine, my mother, my grandmother’s town.

But nostalgia can’t substitute for safety.

The state itself seems to have pushed me away, distancing me from people I once loved. And as I’ve changed by leaving, few have chosen to come along for the ride.

The more I live abroad, the less I fit in here. The more I learn about my rights, the harder it is to contain the rage when they’re denied.

My lifelong yearning to fly has led me to abandon the search for a physical place to belong. I’ll never quite be from here anymore, nor will I ever fully belong anywhere else.

So my home must become something else—an inner place, a vibrant force of identity and connection. A shelter built of video calls, texts, and reunions that, though rare, are radiant. A home with both temporary and lasting characters. A home made of elevated intuition—a place to know when to smile and when to be grateful.

A home where some people touch your soul, not your routine.
A home where you recognize impact instantly, where time and space lose meaning.

The more I feel—deeply, honestly—with those who make me feel the most, that, finally, will be my home.