Last July I left the Bay Area after living there for ten years. This summer, I returned to visit for the first time. I found myself awash in thoughts of “home”. Here I was, in a place that never truly felt like what I conceptualized as home while I lived there, and yet I felt nostalgic. The familiar streets. The old haunts. The place where I became a mom and pediatrician. The people. It’s the people. My people. The friends who became family. The people around whom you can be completely yourself without a second thought. Is that what “home” is?

Maybe.

Yet, home is also now Dallas. Of course it is. Home is where my husband and son are. It is where my job is. It is where, after a year, we are starting to build a community and already have dear friends. It’s just not quite as worn-in yet. Not quite as easy and comfortable. It still requires a GPS. But it’s “home”, right?

Maybe.

Because, deep down, in a way I didn’t fully appreciate prior to spending a decade moving around, home is also where I spent my childhood. Wisconsin. Home is where my family is. Where I grew into the person I am. Where I have lifelong friends who just know me. Where the way things are done is expected and familiar. At least that’s how I imagine it. Perhaps it is a nostalgic lens. If I lived there now would it feel the same? After all of this time, would the glove still fit?

Maybe.

And that’s when I start wishing for a teleporter. Because home is, of course, all of these. And while there is a twinge of envy for those who have all of these homes in one place, I wouldn’t change a thing. Each of these “homes” is now weaved together into the fabric of my life.

They say you can’t go home again. But maybe you already are.

Maybe.