We know what being homesick means. The longing for a safe place, of somewhere and someone we know. Of home, which gives us a sense of calmness, understanding, and being rooted. Homesickness is a feeling—nagging, pervasive, unpleasant—which brings restlessness and somehow clouds one’s perception of the immediate surroundings, at least for a moment.
We’ve all experienced it in some way—when visiting a friend, when being on summer camps, when travelling. But never did I expect myself to be homesick here—homesick in my own home.
I have now been back in Denmark for a week, and never have I felt more homesick. I miss the sounds of Hong Kong, I miss being where everything happens, I miss the feeling of being on a continuous adventure, but what I miss the most, excruciatingly, are the people, my people.
When I dropped my bags on the floor and took in the scents of the place I have always associated with home, it just didn’t feel right, complete, anymore. I spent the next few days in a haze, not knowing—or not accepting—why I didn’t feel the ease and comfort most people feel when finally landing home again. Until I realised why.
I feel homesick. Not for the place I called home before going into the wide world. Not for the place I lived in the past few years. No, I feel homesick for the people I acquainted myself with. The people I went through everything with. The people that are now my home.
So yes, we all know what it feels like to be homesick, but not before now did it occur to me that being homesick is much more than missing a place. It’s about the people, the experiences, and the memories. And I think I will forever be homesick for the people and places I experience along the way as I take in more of the world’s wonders.
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