Home is...where the f*CK is home??

The concept of “home” is a funny thing. There are all kinds of cheesey phrases, “Home is where the heart is”, “Home is where your story begins”… you know them all.

Right now, I struggle to define home.

Home is a condo in one of the towns named after a Saint in Quebec (of which there are thousands) where I live with my…inherited dog (that I am embarrassed to admit how much I love).

Home is a messy, noisy, funny, condo with two girls that I love to the end of earth but don’t always know how to deal with, a husband that I see 25% of the time, and that same dog.

Home is a chair at a desk in a big building in the biggest city that I have, or ever will (I think) live in. I spend 75% of my time there, it holds my only friends in Quebec, and it’s where I have the most social interaction.

Home is my signature on a mortgage on a condo in Edmonton, of which I never plan or intend to live in, ever, just touch down for a visit from time to time.

Home is the basement of my cousin’s house in Edmonton, where I spent some time when I was in between jobs and going through my (failed) separation.

Home is all of the people that I loved and that touched my life when I was lucky enough to visit and live in Madagascar.

Home is a house in Madagascar where my best Cuban friend lived and her husband. Where I attended many parties, felt love like I’ve never experienced before, and was fortunate to be a dinner and/or overnight guest from time to time.

Home is all of those….and none of those.

Home has always been a loaded subject for me. I moved out of my parents’ home and into my grandparents’ home when I was eighteen. As welcomed as I was (they gave me their master bedroom, for crying out loud), I never felt like it was my home. So I moved out, but within walking distance of my grandparents…so at least I had someone kind of nearby.

And from then on, I tried to find a home, with a boyfriend, with a friend, by myself… I finally purchased my own home…and then decided to move to Madagascar three weeks later, where I found myself so far away from home but feeling so at home (after a few (or six) months of crying myself to sleep every night) and so myself and so….”Nicole”…whatever that means. But if I went back today, I know it wouldn’t feel like home.

I’m trying HARD to make Quebec my home. And I’ve succeeded in making it…a comfortable place for me to live. But it’s not home. Neither is any of the above places I’ve mentioned. Home is where the heart is… that doesn’t apply to me. Home is where your story begins… in Edmonton? Mada?

Where did my story begin? (I guess if you count the blog, it’s Madagascar).

I’m trying to think how to conclude on this post. I guess it seems best to keep it open…’cause I don’t have the answer…and I’m confused. And I feel like travelling more. I feel like travelling the world an equal amount as I want to nest and find my place…my real home. Wherever it turns out to be.

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