Tuesday, 11 April 2017


I'm writing this in my old bedroom surrounded by fuschia pink walls and the secret scribbles of 15 year old me hidden in my wardrobe. I feel at home and not all at once. I've brought myself back to Scunthorpe for the second week of my Easter Holiday because Marc has just left for 2 months of working abroad and I didn't want to be on my own in Ipswich. Another place that feels like home and not home all at once.

I've be thinking a lot, and I mean a lot, about where my home is nowadays. I've always considered myself a home body and to not have that answer to hand is a little unsettling. I refer to my home differently when talking to different people and I've been struggling to shake the feeling of unease that comes with a lack of clarity. Yesterday I read this glorious post from Victoria and while it was so SO comforting to know that other people call multiple different cities and countries home, I still can't escape this odd feeling that I'm not 100% comfortable in any of the places that I would usually name.

It did make me realise that home means so many different things though. I may not love all the places in my life for the same reasons but that doesn't make them any more or less important to me.

Scunthorpe is my home town and it will always, always have a big piece of my heart. My whole family is from here and the experiences I had while living here have just about shaped my whole entire being. I came home on Saturday all tired and teary eyed and my Mum was there ready with a cup of tea (just how I like it) and a hug. I had the most glorious sunny weekend with my family, but now everyone else is back at work I'm feeling just a little lost. All my things, bar one suitcase full, aren't here anymore and I'm struggling to fill my time until I go back.

I feel content and safe here but I don't feel challenged.

Living in Ipswich, on the other hand is a constant challenge. I remember the first time I came to visit, when we'd already chosen our new flat and paid the initial deposit, I met Marc at the train station and I cried. I cried and cried because I was scared and nervous and it didn't feel like home. Marc didn't know what that meant and I certainly didn't know what that meant but I just couldn't shake that feeling.

Of course that feeling didn't last and I've grown to really really like Ipswich. I like my Job and I like our flat and I love the life that me and Marc are carving for ourselves here. But now he's gone, for the time being at least, and I'm not so sure how much I'm going to like it all without him. It feels like our home now for sure, but it doesn't really feel like my home yet, if that makes sense? I don't know who I am in Ipswich all on my own, but I'm going to try really hard to find out.

And then there's Manchester. Beautiful glorious Manchester, aka my favourite city in possibly the whole wide world. I spent three years there for University and while it wasn't exactly all smooth sailing I really couldn't have seen myself anywhere else. I grew and changed so much in those three years, and that version of me is someone I still really love. Manchester feels like my soul city, but I'm well aware that university is very very different to what comes after. I lost my way a little bit after I came home and I just don't know how well I would have coped without my family to support me through that.

My home is where I grew up, it's where I became my favourite version of myself and it's where my new life is all at once. Figuring out if my home is is where I belong, on the other hand, feels like something else entirely.

(Big love to Marc for taking these photos, which were honestly a bit of a happy accident. They might not really go but I loved them too much not to share.)

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