Is “home” the place you were born? The place you grew up? Or is it just wherever your Wi-Fi connects automatically?

For me, the idea of home has always been… complicated. I’m the child of immigrant nomads — the kind of people who treat “settling down” the way some treat flossing: a nice idea in theory, but not really part of the lifestyle.

Maybe it’s the family legacy running in my veins, or maybe I’m just trying to match my parents’ travel high scores. Either way, constantly being on the move sounds exciting… until you realize it’s also mentally exhausting. We humans are social animals, after all — we need a place (and people) to belong to.

Right now, at almost 30, I don’t technically “own” a single bed or room anywhere on this planet. My life is a rotation of dorm rooms and borrowed guest beds. If you asked, “But doesn’t your family have a room for you?” — sure, kind of. When I visit, they lay out a futon-style mattress on the floor. And when I leave? It’s rolled up and stored away, like I was never there… poof.

So, home? For some, it’s an address. For me, it was more of a Wi-Fi password and a duffel bag.

Lately, I think I’ve been having a change of heart about what “home” means. I’m starting to believe it’s not so much a location as it is… a vibe. It’s less about where you were born or what your passport says, and more about who you’re with when you finally exhale.

And it turns out, home doesn’t always share your DNA. It’s not necessarily even a conscious choice. Sometimes, it’s just there — like an emotional ambush — in the form of a friend you can be unapologetically weird with, or someone whose presence makes you feel like you’ve stopped wandering for the first time in years.

Is this revelation suspiciously timed with me falling in love? …Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just stumbled into my people. Either way, it feels like I’ve finally found my slot in the cosmic Tetris game — and for once, I fit.

One thing I find absolutely fascinating is how easily some people can just… slot themselves into a place. They’ll travel somewhere, fall in love with it, decide to move, learn the language, pick up the local quirks, and — boom — it’s “home” now. Like watching a plant just transplant itself and start blooming in new soil.

And then there’s me. I have a birthplace where most of my childhood happened, and another city where I lived for years… yet somehow, I can’t bring myself to call either of them home. It’s like trying on shoes that should fit but still give you blisters.

I’ve realized that everyone has their own anchors — those things (or people) that make them feel rooted. And I’m not entirely sure what decides it. For some, it’s a hometown, for others, a childhood house, or even a favorite café that knows their coffee order by heart.

For me? It’s people. When “home” is tied to a person, it suddenly feels portable. I can go anywhere in the world with the right person, and there it is — home. It’s like my version of an anchor… one that actually works with my nomadic lifestyle instead of fighting it.

That said, I’d be lying if I said I’m not exhausted from bouncing between countries like I’m in some international pinball machine. So, if you hear about a house for sale that’s within budget, let me know. Bonus points if it comes with a Wi-Fi password and a permanent bed.