Last month I went home to San Diego for the first time in over a year. While it was because of unforeseen circumstances that pulled be back to sunny Southern California, I had been hitting that mark where after being abroad for long enough you do start to miss your family and friends.
I love Japan, and I loved Thailand just as much, if not maybe more, but after returning home I realized that nothing can ever replace what San Diego means to me.
It's not just a city, it's home.
I've been avoiding writing about it because I haven't known how to put words to the way I'm feeling. I long for the place where I know everything and everyone and I have managed to somehow build friendships with the most amazing people in that city. My heart pulls for the city where my family lives and the street names are familiar and where my room feels like, well, mine.
But at the same time I push away from a return date, because I can't seem to quiet the voice that tells me I don't fit there anymore. That even if I returned and everyone was there and everything was the same, the matter of the fact is that I am not. I don't have a place at home, and none of my dreams or goals begin in that city. As badly as I want to go back, in a matter of months, maybe even weeks, I would be plotting my next destination.
Laying in bed at night figuring out how to save enough for just one more plane ticket out.