My ever expanding definition of "home"

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About the Coffee Talks series!
Through these refreshing posts (hopefully paired with your favorite caffeinated beverage), I share anecdotes, fun facts, and reflections from my life away from the classroom. So, imagine we are sharing a conversation over coffee (I’ll have an iced latte with oat milk) – you choose the place. I’ll provide the topic.

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Before my twenty-second birthday, I lived in four cities spanning three countries. I am accustomed to living out of a backpack or suitcase; hurriedly packing up my life into boxes, grocery bags, or carry-on; and building a routine in a changing atmosphere. And no matter the duration – one month, two months, one year, eighteen years– I consider all my temporary addresses a piece of "home."
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Travel complicated my definition of “home.” For eighteen years, I remained at the same address in St. Paul, Minnesota. I grew up in the same house as my mother; it is a charming house with two commanding spruce trees in the front yard. The house I call my “home home” amongst my friends – wherever I am in the world, I know I can always come back home to the comforting walls of my childhood and the warm embraces of my parents. 

Until I moved out for college, this picturesque house with the brick red roof was the only home I had ever known. But my definition of home was never confined to one building; it encompassed the people, the community, and the memories surrounding it. My first home hosted my childhood best friends playing imaginary Warriors in summer camp and bonding over animal pencil cases in sixth-grade math class. It contained memories of countless group study sessions, sleepovers, carbo loads before softball tournaments, and orchestra rehearsals. Moving away from my first home – everything and everyone I knew – was an agonizing transition. 

College marked four years of extraordinary self-transformation. Although I maintained ties with my childhood home, I established myself in my new one: Duluth, Minnesota. I was welcomed into a quirky freshman-honors-dorm-floor friend group and planted my feet in different communities across campus. Every relationship and opportunity fostered my independence, voice, creativity, ambition, and community-driven spirit. I grew far from the seventeen-year-old girl who felt hidden in the shadows of overachievers, but I intentionally nurtured my roots of childish joy and wonder. 

Moving from a dorm to an apartment to a house was transformative, to put it simply. Packing my possessions and identity into boxes and grocery bags turned out to be a disguised opportunity. The bittersweet stripping of bedroom walls before the painstaking redecoration and organization was reinvigorating. Each new address, new roommates, new year was a fresh start. By my senior year, I belonged to communities filled with kind, encouraging, and skilled academics; inspiring aspiring educators; volunteers, critical thinkers, and a supportive family of professors. 

It took me four years to feel “at home” in Duluth. My heart began to ache when I left behind the gentle giant waves of Lake Superior and skipped for joy when I drove back around the overlook of the Lift Bridge. Moving abroad, however, did not offer the luxury of time to settle in. There was no time to fall back into the shadows, observe, and step out when I felt ready. I have learned to use fear as a motivator to take initiative, ask questions, and venture out into the world.

My first experience living abroad was the shortest. In June 2022, I attended a one-month intensive study program in Salamanca, Spain with my university group. One constant reassurance I require when traveling is familiarity: a piece of home that stabilizes me during the fast-paced journey of a foreigner. And this group of twenty-something students was just the piece I needed. Two hours after a rendezvous in the airport, I left with the stranger I would be living with for the next month. I was petrified! Again, I prepared to relinquish familiarity and embraced my new home. 

Little did I know that the selfless, spunky, and talkative woman I called my host mom (or mamita) would establish Salamanca as my home abroad. Her warm mushroom quiche and homemade paella, gossip and commentary over dating shows and politics, comforting presence after a long day of courses and activities, and kind smile stabilized me after a long day. Over just thirty days, I had the privilege of experiencing endless stories, lessons, and friendships within the context of a stunning, historic city.

I cherished the routines and ordinary moments: office hours outside the Catedral Nuevo, early afternoon café con leche and tapa between courses, and evening tours of the city and campus. Salamanca filled my heart within just one month, so bidding farewell felt like leaving home once again.

October 2022 introduced a similar challenge. Two days before departing for Croatia, I bid a tearful “goodbye” to a third-grade classroom in Duluth and once again packed my life into a suitcase and carry-on. In three days, I moved into an apartment across the world and began teaching. And instead of a group of twenty-something university students, I traveled only with three classmates. 

Throughout this (almost) two-month excursion, I learned a valuable lesson: when living abroad, it is necessary to let go of a part of home. Otherwise, the opportunities and cultural differences become strenuous, not liberating. Due to an incomplete task in Minnesota, it took me weeks to establish a routine and become involved in the local community.

Isn’t that contradictory: bringing along a piece of home while also letting another go? Yes, perhaps it is. However, I find this contradiction offers balance and eases the transition; I have ties to my home country with the flexibility to embrace other customs and habits. 

While falling into a routine in Croatia, I further complicated my definition of “home” through family ancestry. Even though the language and scenery seemed unfamiliar to me, they were familiar to my great-grandparents and their ancestors. Zagreb – my host city— and a cliffside small town were home to a part of my family for generations. After visiting those ancestral sites, the bond to my temporary home and its people strengthened. It was as if I had uncovered an invisible string tied between homes of the past and present.

Outside of this epiphany, I diligently secured routines around the school day. Every morning, my classmates and I brewed coffee; waled forty minutes to school; greeted the morning staff and settled into the classroom as students arrived; taught and assisted lessons; commuted to a nearby café to work on our Minnesota teaching project; returned home for dinner; finished remaining lesson prep; and went to bed. Weekends were spent around the city, on separate family excursions, or through project planning in Zagreb’s Bread Club pastry café: Dolac market visits, exploring side streets around the city center and visiting museums or historical sites. 

Creating a routine, which may seem simple at first glance, was unexpectedly challenging; however, this process was crucial for stabilizing my mental health and awareness of the present moment. After a month in Zagreb, Croatia, I confidently felt at home. I memorized the tram numbers to get to the city center and walking route to school; identified my favorite restaurants, bakeries, and cafés, crafted some lists for grocery shopping, and even managed simple orders in Croatian when required. Dobar dan! (Izvolite). Yedan s čokolada, molim. Hvala, doviđjena. 

*Hello! (Here you are/welcome!). One with chocolate, please. Thank you, goodbye!.

The routine lasted only six weeks; after our required time in the classroom expired, we packed up our apartment and suitcases to prepare for our next adventures across Europe and eventually, home. 

Duluth remained a stable home until graduation. Before I prepared myself, several of my closest friends moved away – to start a job, begin a life with their partner, or transition back home. My vision of home in this northern city shattered in just a few weeks with their departure. Four years of memories, dinner parties, hockey games, and late-night study sessions in the freshman dorm lounge are gone. The memories still linger in the air. 

The meaning of "home" for me constantly evolves. Have you noticed a pattern yet? My home is not limited to one location, building, city, or state. It revolves around limitless relationships and memories. Living abroad further expanded my definition of “home.” Even when leaving behind all familiarity, I found stability.

I will be relocating to Uruguay in seven months, so I must prepare to leave behind this chapter of my life in Duluth, Minnesota. But this time, I will make the transition alone: no university students or classmates by my side. So, I will seek out a different piece of familiarity, let go, and embrace the fear of not knowing what is ahead. Moving away from my college town and embracing a new opportunity may seem wonderful, but it will undoubtedly be the most challenging transition I have ever encountered. 

I will not see my family and closest friends for eight months; I worry that my fear of loneliness will conquer the desire to explore. I must remember to stay out of the shadows and step into the light of unfamiliarity, no matter how scary those first steps will be. I must remind myself that with time, Uruguay will become another home filled with more memories and connections than I can imagine. 

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Keep the conversation going!

In the comments, share your definition of home and how it has evolved!

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