Many languages differentiate between the domicile and figurative definition of home, drawing a line between the physical place one resides and the abstract sense of belonging—a feeling of security. Language, by nature, compartmentalises concepts, distilling meaning by first capturing the essence of its subject. Some cultures root home in the family, in the bonds that shape identity; others tether it to privacy and livelihood, where one truly lives— finding solace in personal space, stability, and routine.
Yet, home is neither linear nor permanent. With the ever-changing nature of human life and our perpetual movement, the protective shield we once relied on—the familiar walls, people, and routines—fades into memory. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the transition between school and university. But what if ‘home’ is not as fixed as we once thought? Is it where we are from or where we grow into ourselves?
Growing up in the United Arab Emirates, I had a constant definition of home. It was the call to prayer echoing through the city, the sun setting between desert and skyline, and the scent of cardamom in my grandmother’s coffee. But moving to Oxford blurred those certainties. Was I leaving home behind or expanding its definition?
In an age where moments are captured with a click, we no longer rely solely on memory to hold onto home. Yet, as I scroll through old photos, I realise home is not as static as I once believed. Family members age, favourite cafés close, and our concept of home continues to evolve without us. Living 4,400 miles away, I often reach for these snapshots when I feel lost. They serve as a reminder—not just of what was familiar, but of the certainty I once attached to home itself.
We often frame leaving home as a loss, but it is also an act of becoming. It is about adapting to the unfamiliar: new streets, new faces, and new rituals that slowly transform foreign spaces into something our own. Oxford became home not in its buildings or air but in the quiet moments of belonging I carved out for myself: my routine visits to Opera Cafe, my seat in the classroom that overlooks an oak tree changing with every season.
For some, home remains a place. For others, it is a chapter closed, a choice to embrace the unknown, unburdened by nostalgia.
Home is abstract; defining its essence in a single definition is difficult. It is not simply a place but a feeling, a familiarity that exists even in unfamiliar spaces. Some find home in constancy, while others find it in movement, in the quiet moments that anchor them wherever they go.
I have come to realise that home is not something I leave behind nor a place I must return to. It is the echo of my grandmother’s coffee brewing in a distant kitchen, the hush of Oxford libraries where I have learned to find solace, the shifting constellations of belonging that shape my world.
Perhaps home is not a destination but a thread we carry—woven through memory and the spaces we claim as our own.