A Place Where I Belong

Coming home for Thanksgiving is always a welcomed breath of fresh air. Escaping on vacation time to just enjoy family, cool temperatures, bright leaves, good food, good books, reuniting with friends, and peaceful naps renews my soul.

Sometimes skirting around family tensions and disagreements can be tough. We can’t talk politics. Sometimes there’s some sadness when family members grow older and decline in health. Sometimes it’s hard talking about struggles when everyone wants to hear good news.

Despite any of the complications that come with being at home, I know I belong here. I am loved here. I have a place here.

Old memories from childhood and high school come flooding back when driving down roads that are forever ingrained in my mind. I pass streets where I don’t drive down, but I know them well. They are where I used to hang out or where friends used to live. When I was a kid, I was angsty and searching for an identity, and love, and self-worth. With all of the teenage anxiety aside, things were much simpler back then. My heart was a little sweeter, a little lighter in those days.

Endearing memories from college flash in my mind. I remember being young and free, exploring newfound agency and quality education. I remember late nights with friends, laughing until the wee hours of the morning, spending hours solving all of the world’s problems, not getting enough sleep, feeling safe, invincible, and accepted, and having time to do the things I loved, like singing in choir and acting in plays. I remember dreaming big, and I take some pride in achieving many of those dreams already. I remember the friends who I still hold dear in my heart, even if there are some I haven’t seen in four or five years.

I smile at the colorful leaves on the ground and some that are still clinging to the trees. I love the hay bales, cows, tractors, barns, and rolling Appalachian hills. I am warmed by neighbors and grocery cashiers who know people by name.

I probably won’t ever move back to the Tri-Cities again; at least not for a very long time. But this is still my home, and I still belong here.

Knowing that there is somewhere I belong helps me know my worth. I should feel like I belong wherever I live; I should always feel like I have a place and a voice. Who I am as a person, as an individual, should always matter much more than what I do and how I function. I am worth being loved for who I am, not what I can do for others, not what I can offer, and not how I perform tasks. I am not a means to an end, but I am an end in and of myself.

I am all the more determined to belong and make my own home.

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