3,000 Miles

While I love them dearly and each one holds a place in my heart, my home is not my friends or my family. It isn’t where I was born, where I grew up or where I made the most memories. Home for me is a place I’d fantasized about visiting and living in for almost seven years. A place that I wasn’t able to go see until this year, for the weekend of my 23rd birthday.

It isn’t my hometown or birthplace, and it is nowhere near the people I’ve been surrounded by.

It’s exactly 2,994 miles away.

The first time I’d even thought about California in general was at sixteen, when I realized most internet personalities and musicians I looked up to resided in Los Angeles. It was solely a matter of being in a location where I had a higher chance of running into any of them; a running joke with myself. I stopped thinking about it after a year or two, and in 2018 I started really thinking about where I want to be when it comes down to living alone (with my pets, of course). It was a tie between Florida and California. The former was much more affordable, and soon I made my decision.

It was an obvious hazard to travel under the circumstances, but the opportunity of saving so much on a trip that costs me at least twice as much three years ago was too tempting. It wasn’t just a celebration of a birthday I normally hated, it was a chance to actually see the city that never ceased to captivate me.

From the moment the plane landed to the end of the last full day, I felt like I was in a sanctuary. There was no family drama, no former friends who felt the need to keep issues going, no feeling like I didn’t have a place anywhere. No matter where I spent my time in those three days, there were no worries, second thoughts or doubts.

From Downtown LA.

To Hollywood.

To Beverly Hills.

To Santa Monica.

The beach has always been more serene than anything I’ve ever experienced, and I always thought that was my home. The sand, the waves, the scent. Yet this one felt different, and the reason why was clear as day.

Not being where I was supposed to be, or rather, not belonging anywhere I’d been has been a lingering factor in my life since elementary school.

With the handful of times my family moved to other towns/cities and I changed schools. With all the great people that have come in and out of my life. With each second embedded in my memory regardless of being wanted or not. Everything weighed me down for years, but stepping foot off the plane and into what became the city of my dreams made it all disappear.

I was able to walk around wearing what made me most comfortable without feeling like it was too beyond the norm to be seen. I didn’t feel lonely while being alone. I never once experienced feeling as if I had to hide an important piece of myself in order to avoid silent judgment and the stares that come with being different. As if despite what any person could have said, it wouldn’t have mattered because I was there.

It’s on the other side of the country, far from relatives and anyone I’ve ever personally known. Far from all I’ve known my entire life and would have continued to know if this chance wasn’t taken.

While I will always love them dearly and each one will forever hold a place in my heart, my friends or family are not my home. It isn’t where I was born, where I grew up or where I made the most memories. Home for me is a place I was finally able to visit after seven years of fantasizing and two years of realization. A place that, despite having been there for the very first time for only a weekend, finally made me feel like I belong somewhere.

It isn’t my birthplace or any of the multiple East End towns we moved around to.

It’s where everyone I look up to has gone to chase their dreams; dreams that have been achieved; dreams that they are still living after years.

It may not be my hometown.

It may be 3,000 miles away.

But it was when my happiness depleted hearing the pilot say, “For those of you from Boston, welcome back home” was compared to the never-ending joy in LA, that I knew that it was my heart’s home.