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When Home Doesn’t Feel Like Home

Since I started my current job, I have been traveling frequently to Bangkok, Thailand and Jakarta, Indonesia. My last trip was in June and I was in Bangkok for 2 weeks. I know Philippine’s crappy and Thailand’s modern airport like the back of my hand. So, I flew in, settled in my usual hotel, unpack, eat Thai food and prep for the next day of work. It feels comforting that I already have a routine when traveling and I take that as a validation that I am an independent woman.

I can feel at home everywhere – be it in a grand hotel, cramped airbnb room or a solitary island. This is a good thing, for the most part. The most conflicting thing happens when I pack my bags and fly back to my hometown, Manila. As soon as the pilot announces “Cabin crew, prepare for landing”, all the fears and anxieties I thought were gone forces themselves back into me. It always feels like somebody bursts the imaginary bubble that I am in and that I have to prepare myself for battle.

Traveling always feels like a high and going home, well, it means that I need more of it or else I’ll crash and burn. And I always, always do.

The familiarity of our house, of my tiny bedroom, are all just that – familiar. It feels like I am a stranger in the house I grew up in since I was born. I think it stopped being a home when I actively pursued my wanderlust exploits. I still live there, by the way, but it just doesn’t feel the same anymore. Everytime I travel, bits and pieces of my soul are left where I was that I can’t get back. This desire to travel, this is something I want to do my entire life. To go on roads less traveled, on cities undiscovered, on islands untouched. That would be the ultimate goal.


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