If our body is our home, then wouldn’t the roof be our mind? Not just the ceiling, but the outermost layer that shields us from the elements. It stands guard, scanning for threats, always on high alert. Its hardened surface protects us, but in doing so, it keeps us from fully stepping inside.

So many of us spend too much time perched on that roof—overthinking, anticipating, protecting—until we forget what it feels like to actually be inside ourselves. To feel safe. To feel at home.

And when we’re caught between worlds—between cultures, between past and future versions of ourselves, between places we’ve left and places we haven’t quite arrived at yet—the meaning of home gets even blurrier.

When Home Feels Unfamiliar

As a third-culture kid, I’ve spent my life searching for what home means. Is it a place? A feeling? A person?

My passport says home is Finland. A country I love for its stillness, its nature, its magical summer nights. But after living abroad for so long, home there started to feel unfamiliar—like a childhood bedroom you return to, only to realize it no longer fits who you’ve become.

The closest I’ve felt to home is Amsterdam. Maybe it’s because it’s a city full of people who have also left their “home” behind, who understand what it’s like to exist between places. Maybe it’s the familiar clink of bikes, the NS train announcements, the golden light reflecting off the canals at sunset. Maybe it’s the feeling of gezelligheid—a Dutch word with no perfect translation, but if you’ve ever sat on a terrace with friends, watching the world go by, you’ll know exactly what I mean.

But if home were just about a place, why do we sometimes feel like strangers in the cities we love?

Finding Home in Yourself

Maybe home isn’t a where. Maybe it’s a what.

Maybe it’s the way we feel inside our own bodies. The way we soften into a moment, exhale fully, and trust that we belong—not because of our surroundings, but because we’ve created a sense of belonging within ourselves.

But that’s easier said than done, isn’t it?

For many of us, life has trained us to stay on high alert. Maybe you grew up in a home that didn’t feel safe, so you learned to protect yourself by shutting down. Maybe your life has been a series of transitions, forcing you to keep moving before you had a chance to plant roots.

When that happens, we get stuck in survival mode—watching life from the roof instead of stepping inside. The more we exist in our thoughts, untethered from our bodies, the more we begin to feel like ghosts of ourselves. You’re here, but not quite. Permeable. See-through. We become so accustomed to coping that we forget what it feels like to truly be.

But here’s the thing: a home cannot feel like home if it’s filled with fear.

A home cannot feel like home if it’s filled with fear.

Before we can fully return, we have to build an internal space where we feel safe enough to exist.

A space where we give ourselves permission.
Permission to slow down.
Permission to feel.
Permission to belong to ourselves.

And what makes a home come alive? Expression.

Expression as a Return Home

Expression has a way of bringing us back to ourselves. When we suppress our true expression, we freeze. We shrink. We go numb. Emotions, like energy, are meant to move. Suppressed sadness lingers like a locked door. Repressed anger sits in the walls, rattling the foundation.

But when we create—whether through dance, music, singing, writing, photography, poetry, or acting—we begin to move what was once stuck within us. We shake the dust off the furniture. We open the windows. We let fresh air in. And in doing so, we heal.

Giving ourselves permission to express is an act of reclaiming. We breathe life back into our space.

When we create—whether through dance, music, singing, writing, photography, poetry, or acting—we begin to move what was once stuck within us.

All Roads Lead Home

The one home that will always remain with us—whether we move to a new city, a new country, or a new chapter in our lives—is us.

We cannot outrun it. We cannot hide from it. But we can return to it—again and again.

Coming home isn’t a one-time event. It’s an ongoing process of choosing to come back to ourselves, over and over again. It’s about holding safety while making space for expression. It’s about feeling the weight of your breath settling in your chest. Feeling the ground beneath you. The warmth of your own presence.

Home is not just a place. It’s a presence. Home is not just a body. It’s belonging.

And here, within myself, I am finally home.

Now, take a deep breath—and repeat that to yourself.