The Meaning of Home
I grew up in a small city in Slovenia, right on the border with Italy—a place of about 20,000 people. In many countries, this would be considered a town rather than a city, but in a nation of only 2 million, every metric feels grand.
Most students from my hometown eventually move to bigger cities, primarily Ljubljana, the capital, or its slightly smaller counterpart, Maribor (unknowingly inheriting the rivalry between the two). The transition typically happens at 18, marking the first step toward independence.
I did the same. I moved to Ljubljana, sharing an apartment with high school friends, and—accompanied by my mother’s teary farewell—began what was called an “adult” life. Yet, like many newly independent students, I found myself back home nearly every weekend, stocking up on homemade food and soaking in the milder climate of our region compared to the damp chill of the capital.
After years of balancing life between “homes” and spending a total of nine years in Ljubljana, I made a move—to Amsterdam, The Netherlands. Back then, the Digital Nomad life wasn’t mainstream, so moving abroad was often seen as either an escape or an inspiration, depending on who you asked. Either way, it meant leaving behind not just family and friends, but roots, habits, and culture, to step into a world where most people wouldn’t even know where to find Slovenia on a map.
Now, nearly ten years later, Amsterdam is my official place of residence, the address on my tax forms. I have a job, friends, two cats, and an apartment. By societal standards, all the parameters of “home” are checked off. And yet, every time I catch myself saying, I’m going back home when visiting Slovenia, I pause and rephrase it to I’m visiting my parents instead.
It seems my mind has defined “home” as a singular, fixed place—tied to walls, paperwork, and borders. But is it really? I’ve listened to my mind’s logic for years, but what does my heart say?
The Heart Speaks
"Home is more than a physical place. It’s people, food, memories, and experiences. It’s not something constructed—it’s something felt. Home is the warmth of familiarity, the ease of knowing your way around. But it’s also the discomfort, the growing pains, the bittersweet moments. It’s being a foreigner in a familiar place and a local in an unfamiliar one. Home is without borders, without walls.
Home is where the soul finds resonance—in culture, art, craftsmanship, rituals, and connection. Some feel most at home in the midst of chaos, others in silence and solitude. Many wander somewhere in between, waiting for the feeling of 'home' to appear before they allow themselves to root—sometimes forgetting to look inside.
Home is embodiment. It’s acceptance. It’s the courage to look in the mirror and the patience to heal. It’s sensing your toes in the earth, knowing which foods nourish you, recognising the people who energise you. It’s the sound of deep listening and sacred speech. It’s the intuition we carry wherever we go, acting as an inner compass guiding our movement and stillness alike.
I am Home.”
A Boundless Home
Conceptual homes—rooted in addresses, expectations, and definitions—create the fear of loss. They make us feel stuck, displaced, or like we don’t belong. Like fences, they separate us—not just from others, but sometimes from ourselves.
Experiential homes, on the other hand, are like our hearts: boundless, abundant, and ever-welcoming. They are built not from bricks but from trust and love—materials that regenerate every time we surrender and let go. They are places where everyone, and everything, belongs.
It’s okay to have more than one home. It’s okay to have no physical home at all yet feel the most at home you ever have.
Wherever you are… welcome Home.
♡