The other meaning of home

This August, I felt homeless. Or at least… that’s what I thought. Moving from my house where I was born is the hardest thing I have ever done. For my whole life, my home in the USA was my world. When I think about what home means, I think of the little things that made it special. I remember the bird nest in my backyard where I watched tiny eggs hatch every spring and also think of my trampoline, where I spent hours jumping toward the clouds and laughing with my friends. Those things weren't just objects; they were part of my happy life. But then I realized something important. Home isn’t a building. It isn’t an address or a wall with tick marks showing me how tall I’ve grown. Home is how you feel. Home is the people who make you feel safe, even when everything else is new. It’s my family sitting together at the table, laughing at my dad’s cheesy jokes. It's arguing with my sister just to end up cuddling on the couch. It’s my mom making me eat warm soup when I’m sick. Home is comfort, laughter, and even silly little routines that make life feel normal. Those things didn’t disappear when I moved, they came with me to Canada. Home is the moments that make you feel like you belong. It’s the people you love, memories, and the family that make you feel safe. You can leave streets, rooms, even countries behind, but if you take those things with you, you take home with you too. I realized I wasn’t homeless. I just learned how to define what home truly means. This August, I felt homeless. Or at least… that’s what I thought.