I like feeling homesick when I travel

It's proof that somewhere in the world holds a piece of you 💛

There’s something oddly comforting about that feeling of missing home when traveling. Homesickness, in its quiet and persistent way, is proof that somewhere in the world holds a piece of you — a piece so significant it pulls at your heart even when you’re far away.

It’s not a longing for one specific moment or place but rather a deep connection to the essence of home. The warmth, the familiarity and routine, the rhythm of everyday life.

I usually feel homesickness tugging at me during happy moments of travel, when I am most content. At Jolene in London, eating a flaky croissant and people watching, or during quiet afternoon in Mexico City, sitting at Panadería Rosetta with a guava roll and my book. I feel homesick when I’m walking through Hampstead Heath in London, with dogs running free on lush green lawns and lovers holding hands trudging with their wellies on. I feel homesick in places that remind me of home, places I’ve dreamed of moving to.

the light that dances across my home in winter afternoons

I didn’t always know what “home” felt like until I moved to New York. It was the first place I’ve ever truly felt at home, a city that welcomed me and mirrored back pieces of myself I hadn’t yet understood in childhood or in college. I didn’t realize what returning to a true home felt like until the first time I flew over Manhattan on a return flight. Looking down at the grid of streets, the jagged skyline, and the shimmering water below, I felt that unmistakable excitement bubbling up: this city was mine. It’s a feeling I cherish every time my plane descends into JFK, the anticipation of being reunited with the place that holds my heart.

Homesickness, to me, is not a sad feeling, it’s a feeling of gratitude. I don’t fight it, I welcome it, because it’s a reminder that the life I’ve built is full of places, people, and rituals that matter deeply to me.

me photosynthesizing in the park with my boy

In my neighborhood of Fort Greene, I can trace the comforting parallels of my favorite faraway places. Thea is my own Panadería Rosetta, where I can order Mexican hot chocolate and conchas and read if I snag a coveted table. Fort Greene Park during off-leash hour is a slice of Hampstead Heath, where I can watch miniature dachshunds dart at full speed through the tall grass, their legs obscured, their ears flapping in the wind they’ve created. The people at Rhodora remind me of the crowd that drinks natural wine at Jolene in the afternoons. They’re young, beautiful, and multi-dimensional main characters that all deserve their own blockbuster hit indie movie.

Homesickness weaves together the threads of my travels and my home life, creating a tapestry where each place holds reflections of the other. It’s not about being incomplete without home but rather recognizing how deeply rooted it is in who I am, and how it shows up in the places I love, no matter how far I roam, beckoning me to return. Sometimes I think I’m so addicted to travel because I want to chase this tugging feeling, this validation that I settled and built a life in the right place.

Maybe next time you feel that tug, that faint ache of homesickness, you’ll sit with it, maybe even savor it. Because to miss home is to carry its essence with you, wherever you are.

xx

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