Going home for the first time after living abroad alone made me realise that I am pretty good at being a long-distance daughter. Distance had made my relationships with my family easier.

Going back home made me see how much had changed and how much had stayed just the same. I thought about this a while back. In my time away from everything and everyone I had ever known, I learnt to grow and shape my life. Time had moulded some of my sides softer, and some corners sharp. Being at home confirmed this for me.

The practiced video calls from thousands of miles away are, of course, different than having face to face conversations where I couldn’t just excuse myself if I was suddenly homesick to my bones. Being at home meant being with the old walls I scribbled on and the old staircase I cried in. Being at home meant sneaking into the bed besides my parent at 2AM, just because. Being at home meant getting an ice cream at noon with dad. Being at home meant seeing that my brother’s got my back and I’ve got his. Being at home meant sleeping to the sound of my mother’s heartbeat memorising her scent. Being at home meant wishing my dad good morning with a hug. Being at home also meant arguments and discussions over every single detail. Being at home meant getting back to chores that helped me stay home before.

Being at home meant having to go back to everything I had once chosen to move away from, and everything I had sacrificed in the process of it. Being at home, after time away, meant feeling homesick all over again for everything that could be.

Going back home briefly meant that I could leverage time and ask to be looked after. But being at home meant I didn’t really have to ask.