Home, Movement, and the Places that Hold Us

We are living in a time of movement.

People move because they want to—because a new job appears, curiosity grows, or travel becomes a way of life. Others move because they have to—because staying is no longer safe, viable, or possible. These situations are not the same. They carry very different weights, risks, and consequences. And yet, they often share something fundamental.

Movement almost always comes with consequences.

Disorientation. A loss of familiar reference points. A subtle or sometimes drastic shift in identity. The feeling that what once felt obvious—how to behave, how to belong, how to solve everyday problems—suddenly requires effort. Even confidence, something we often think of as internal and stable, can quietly erode when the environment around us no longer mirrors who we think we are.

At the same time, there are those who remain in one place—often for a long time. A place they call home. A place where people know your name, where you know how things work, where the cultural codes are familiar and the social rules are largely predictable. There is comfort in this. Emotional safety. A sense of continuity. When problems arise, you usually know whom to ask, where to go, how to respond.

Both positions—movement and stability—are often spoken about as opposites. But they are deeply connected. And both carry their own risks when it comes to how we understand “home.”

What We Mean When We Say “Home”

Almost everyone has a place—or several places—they call home. The bond to these places can be surprisingly intense. Home is rarely just a physical structure. It is the climate and smell. Language and sound. Architecture and rhythm. People, memories, habits. Sometimes warmth and care. Sometimes tension, loss, or pain.

Not all homes are positive experiences. And still, they shape us.

When we no longer feel at home—because we have left, because the place has changed, or because we have changed—home can turn into a powerful longing. A desire for a certain place, a certain life, a certain version of ourselves. This longing easily becomes an imagined home: idealized, frozen in time, untouched by conflict or complexity.

Or the opposite happens. We reject the idea of home altogether. We dismiss it, exaggerating its flaws, turning it into something we want nothing to do with. In both cases, we are no longer relating to a real place. We are relating to an internal image.

Interestingly, something similar can happen when we never leave.

The Risk of Staying

When we remain in the same place for a long time and feel at home there, another risk appears: preservation. The attempt to protect home from change.

This can look like closing ranks. Holding on tightly to “how things have always been.” Resisting new people, new ideas, new ways of living. Home becomes something that must be defended rather than lived in. Change is perceived as a threat rather than a part of life.

But this, too, is an illusion.

Life changes continuously. People age. Children are born. Others leave or die. Social structures shift. Economies change. Cultures evolve. Even if we don’t move geographically, movement is happening all the time.

When we try to freeze home in place, we act out of fear and limitation. The result is not stability, but stagnation. And stagnation is not a healthy form of home. It is an inner stuckness that eventually collides with the reality of the outside world—which will always keep moving.

Home as an Ongoing Practice

Whether we are moving across countries, living between places, taking refuge, returning, or staying where we are—finding home is not a one-time achievement. It is an ongoing process.

We cannot move backward in time. There is no return to an earlier version of home, even if we go back to the same street, the same house, the same town. What exists now is always different—from what it was, and from what we were.

Those who move often become more aware of this. Change is visible, unavoidable, sometimes overwhelming. Those who stay may be less conscious of it, because change happens more gradually. But the task is the same for all of us: to find and create home again and again within a world that is constantly shifting.

This is not about perfection. It is about orientation.

The Need for a Place That Holds Us

We need places to rest.

Places where we can recover, recharge, and feel safe enough to let our guard down. Places where we are seen, or at least not questioned. Where we feel some form of love, connection, or belonging.

Without these experiences, it becomes very difficult to grow, to create, or to engage openly with others. Belonging is not a luxury. It is a basic human requirement.

A place we recognize as ours—whether physical, relational, or internal—gives us grounding. From that grounding comes resilience. From resilience comes the ability to welcome others, to stay present in difficult conversations, to hold uncertainty without immediately closing down.

Only from such places can change happen in a healthy way. Not out of panic or fear, but out of curiosity and awareness.

These are what I like to think of as restorative places. Places that give strength. Places that allow renewal.

They are not always dramatic or beautiful. Sometimes they are quiet. Ordinary. Overlooked. But they work.

Feeling at Home Is Not the End of the Journey

Feeling at home does not mean that everything is resolved. It does not mean we have arrived at some final destination.

On the contrary, home can be the place from which we dare to look outward again. A place where new ideas are allowed to emerge. Where curiosity is safe. Where visions can form, not because we are restless, but because we are grounded enough to explore.

No matter our age or stage of life, there is always something new waiting to be discovered. A different way of living. A new relationship to place. A new role within a familiar environment.

Change does not have to come from rupture. It can come from love. From safety. From connection.

Building Home, Every Day

Home is not something we find once and then keep forever. It is something we build, tend to, and renegotiate—internally and externally—every day.

Sometimes it is a physical space. Sometimes a community. Sometimes a rhythm, a practice, or a relationship. Often it is a combination of all of these.

The question is not only where we live, but how we relate to the places that hold us.

Which place allows you to exhale?
Where do you feel most yourself?
Where do you feel restored rather than depleted?

These questions are companions rather than problems to solve.

Because in the end, home is not a static location. It is a living relationship, between ourselves, others, and the spaces we inhabit. And that relationship, like life itself, is always in motion, something we can shape and tend to, day by day.

Before moving on, you might pause for a breath and notice where you are—and how it feels to be there.