Recently, I did a lesson with my students on connotation (which, for an abstract concept, they understood quite quickly). One of the examples we talked about is the difference between a home, a house, a residence, and a dwelling. They all mean basically the same thing: a place where someone lives. The difference between them is in the associated feelings; you probably wouldn’t say “dwelling, sweet dwelling.”

I gave them an example from my own life. Here in London, I’m living in a dwelling, or a residence. A building that I’m not incredibly attached to — in fact, I’d much rather not be in a bunk bed in a small flat that I share with three other people. No positive connotation here. Then I told them that when I think of home, I think of where I grew up in the American south. I think of the off-white house with the black roof in which I’ve always lived with my grandparents, my mom, my aunt, my dog.

I was at a point in this journey where that was true. Home, the familiarity, the ease, was something that I was craving. Living in another country gets overwhelming and tiring at some times.

The thing is, the idea of “home” is something I’ve always struggled with, because I’ve never really felt like I had it. Growing up, the house was just that: a house, with a slightly more affectionate connotation than “dwelling” or “residence”.

People keep asking me if I’m ready to go home, but I don’t know. Even when I’m at university up in New England, I don’t particularly look forward to going home as much as I just feel that it’s something I have to do. It’s what comes next. I wish I could wrap this up with a nice bow and say that home is something you take with you, or quote that Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes song, but I can’t. And maybe that’s okay for now. All I know is that no, I’m not quite ready to leave yet. I’m not done here.