Home

I used to love travelling.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate it. I just don’t love it right now.

I travel out of necessity. For work. For family. That sort of stuff.

No, I don’t do anything important either. I’m not a high flying CEO or Executive of any company. It’s just that somehow my life has given me the opportunity to have a home in three different countries, on three different continents.

It’s complicated.

Back when my family moved to Medicine Hat I couldn’t wait to leave. I hated growing up there, going to high school, college, and university there. I hated doing my practicums there. Working there. Living there. Every chance I took I escaped, even if it was only for a summer job and I didn’t end up taking home much money in the end.

When people asked me where home was or where I was from, I always answered, “Medicine Hat, but only because my parents live there.”

I moved to the UK in 2012. It was the chance of a lifetime to escape every part and every memory of my home. As much as this was what I desired, I experienced homesickness for the first time in my life. And it wasn’t just a little bit, it was nearly paralyzing some days. I cried a lot those first few months and no one understood why: I was in England, I should be having a fantastic time.

How do you explain to your friends, when you move and live in a tourist destination, you are no longer a tourist and the daily grind replaces the euphoria of being on holiday. I had no job, no money, no friends, I struggled to drive on the other side of the road, I didn’t understand the money, or what people were saying half the time.

I had moved for my ex-husband and he was not really empathetic to my situation, making me feel even more isolated at the time.

My mom kept telling me to come “home” because there was work available and I wouldn’t be alone. At the time, the offer was tempting. But I’m more known for my stubbornnes and determination: once I set my mind to something I have to fail pretty epically before I change what I’m doing. Continuing on this thread, I still haven’t moved from the UK back to Canada. I was determined that post-divorce I was going to be self-sufficient and independent.

So what takes me to Morocco? My partner. I know, I know. I swore to myself that I was never going to move to another country for another person ever again. However, we run a Surf Camp and School together so naturally I need to be there from time to time. Over time and for reasons beyond me, Morocco has felt more like home than the UK ever has and I feel like I’m at the most peace when I’m here.

That kind of sums up my trifecta of homes at the moment.

I felt OK with this nomadic life, even throwing in the odd weekend away or little trip. I always had a home close by, and my compass always pointed back to Canada as my “true home” or ultimate destination. After all, Medicine Hat was home because my parents lived there.

A little girl, asked where her home was, replied, “Where mother is.”

Keith L. Brooks

I came across this quote when I was in my first or second year of college. It rang true to me then, even though I spent much of my time trying to escape home and fighting with my mother. But I had known that if I ever needed anything, or that if I was in trouble, I could always call my parents, especially my mother. I knew that in my darkest moments after I had moved, I could have called her.

And I did. We would talk for hours and no stone would be left unturned by the end of our conversations. It felt like she gave a little piece of home back to me everytime we talked. When I would finally walk through the doors of my childhood home it often felt like no time had passed at all, and whenever I would leave to go back to the UK or Morocco I always knew I would be back home soon.

A week ago, as I was packing my suitcase and walking out the door to start my journey back to Morocco, my departure felt incredibly final and surreal. There was no one fussing over me if I had gotten enough sleep and had had a good breakfast. There was no one messaging me that they loved me and would miss me as I left. There was no message on my phone for me to send a message when I landed on the other side.

It wasn’t just surreal, it felt empty.

The lost and empty feeling is probably the most persistent feeling I’ve had since my mom died. No one in the kitchen when I come home. No one asking me if I want to go shopping. No one telling me about the latest purchase they got on sale. No one asking me which cafe we are going to have lunch at.

It doesn’t feel like anything is pulling me back to Canada. The house I grew up in feels really hollow. Is Canada still my home then? And does Canada still need to be my home?

I was a nomad before my mom died. I’m no longer a nomad. I’m just lost and I don’t like travelling right now.