For most of my adult life, I thought home was supposed to look a certain way.
A house you owned. Rooms filled with furniture you picked out carefully. Closets that somehow never stayed organized. A place that anchored you, even when life felt chaotic. That’s what we were taught, right? You build a life, you buy a house, you settle in.
I spent years chasing what my parents had – a home in the suburbs and all the trimmings (and trappings) that go with it. We even bought a house a few neighborhoods away from theirs that had the same split-level layout and partially furnished it with their old sectional sofa. We even had their old bed.
But that home didn’t work for us. And neither did the next one we bought. Or the next one.
For a while, a version of home ownership did work for us. But even when I was happily garage-saling every weekend to fill every square inch of my 2,400 square-foot home with its perfect white picket fence, I had this quiet, persistent feeling that I was forcing myself into a mold that didn’t quite fit. And I really hated yardwork. And the upkeep that came with having a home.
Years ago, I wrote about realizing I wasn’t meant to be a homeowner — and now, six years into full-time travel, I’m even more convinced of it.
We still technically own a home. And I love that for someone else.
Truly. I’m happy knowing another family is filling it with noise and milestones and everyday messes. It would have been far too big and far too quiet for us. That chapter had closed, even if I didn’t fully understand it at the time.
What I have learned is this: home doesn’t have to be a fixed address. And letting go of that idea has been one of the most freeing realizations of my life.
A few years ago, we returned to the States after spending extended time abroad. I expected it to feel familiar, grounding — like slipping into a well-worn pair of shoes. Instead, it felt… foreign. Not bad. Just different. I found myself missing places we’d visited. Streets we’d walked. Cafés where no one knew our names, but everything still felt oddly comfortable.
That’s when it really hit me: my definition of home had shifted.
Home wasn’t the country I was born in or the house I once lived in. Home was the feeling of belonging, and that feeling traveled with us.
These days, home looks like a suitcase that actually closes, a calendar filled with flights instead of obligations, and the quiet confidence that we don’t need to “settle down” to feel settled.
It also looks like a digital picture frame, fingerpaintings from the grandkids and the magnets that hold them to whatever fridge we have, a souvenir from our first date, and a Garfield that serves as the star on our tree every year and a friendly greeting the rest of the time.
No matter where we land—England, France, Germany, or somewhere new—the first thing we unpack is that frame. It’s filled with photos of our kids, our grandkids, and our adventures, instantly transforming a temporary space into our space.
That’s home.
Wherever we go, it’s home when this gets hung on the wall
From our very first date at the Western Idaho Fair in August 1997, REO Speedwagon concert.
xoxoxo
Not the walls. Not the square footage. But the reminders of who we love and why we’ve chosen this life.
And here’s the joyful part, the part I didn’t expect.
I don’t miss owning a home. I don’t miss worrying about maintenance, or filling rooms just to fill them, or staying put because it’s what you’re “supposed” to do. I definitely don’t miss the stuff. (Or the dusting).
What I love instead is waking up in new places, sharing experiences with my husband, and knowing that we’ve designed a life that prioritizes connection over convention.
“Home is not a place; it’s a feeling.” – unknown
It’s morning coffee together in a place we’ve never been before. It’s video chatting with our kids from across an ocean. It’s knowing we can pick up and go, not because we’re running from something, but because we’re running toward what matters.
And maybe that’s the biggest lesson: home isn’t something you own. It’s something you carry.
If you’re in a season where your old definition of home no longer fits, whether your kids are grown, your life looks different, or your heart is pulling you somewhere unexpected, it’s okay to let that definition evolve.
You’re not lost. You’re just redefining what home means now.
And that can be a beautiful thing.
