Letter 82: What Makes a Home?
Letter 82: What Makes a Home?
When we are open to it all
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Happy Middle of February!
I’m so glad that Mallory is sharing her experience in today’s letter. I’m an avid fan of hers already, but I also appreciate her willingness to share her nomadic life with our readers. Her openness about how she embraces indecision as a part of her journey is such an excellent reminder to me. She shares that “home” can be an ever-evolving part of our identity and there’s no wrong way to feel. I’m grateful that I am surrounded by such wise women in my life, women of all ages, who continue to teach me more about myself every day. Because isn’t that what it’s all about? How we choose to see our days, our opportunities, and what we make of what’s to come. What a gift!—Molly
Click play to hear Mallory read today’s letter.
Do you cry in airports? I do. SeaTac, DCA, LAX—been there, done that. My tears once prompted a security agent at the Amsterdam airport to stop me in order to make sure I wasn’t traveling against my will. No sir, thanks for asking, but I’m actually just a weepy American philosophically pondering the meaning of home.
My airport emotions stand out from my usual personality. I’m typically not a crier, I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve, and I generally recoil from public strong displays of emotion. But airports symbolically and literally lay at the intersection of where I’ve been with where I’m going, heightening feelings of uncertainty. I say goodbye to my family at SeaTac departures as I prepare for a chunk of time on the East Coast; I give my friends hugs as I embark on another cross-country drive. Airports force me to reflect upon the fact that I can’t have it all when it comes to a home base—no matter where I am, I give up time with the people I love as I traverse from one coast to the other.
My feelings related to home can best be described as self-inflicted. I work remotely and so does my boyfriend. Taking advantage of the flexibility that this offers, I’ve spent months at a time in a variety of spots over the last couple years, thus far avoiding having to pick a postgrad home-base.
It’s not lost on me that this is the type of flexibility some people spend their whole careers trying to achieve; it feels insensitive to complain. Over the last year alone, we’ve driven across the country three times and I only have eleven US states left to visit. This weird post-covid life proves not only to be interesting but also gives me the best of a lot of worlds: I can ski in the winter and enjoy the beach in the summer; spending time with my family in Washington can happen for months at a time but so can frequent visits to my NYC friends.
This is a great life. It’s also quite disorienting when someone asks where you live, expecting a two-second answer, but thirty seconds in and I’m only getting started with my explanation. Yet there’s no place that I even want to live permanently, at least for now. Recently that uncomfortable truth evokes my aforementioned airport emotions, even when I’m at rest: what is a home, anyway? Is it the state on your driver's license? A place in which you feel most like yourself? The location Apple Maps suggest you drive back to at the end of the day? The place you grow up or the place you end up?
I’ve made and left pieces of who I am in all of these places: my parents’ homes and my one-month rental. My freshman year dorm room, and my boyfriend’s family beach house. It’s a blessing to see so much of the country, to try on different cities and towns, and to not feel trapped in any one spot.
But I can’t help that nagging feeling from creeping up on me: that I’m missing out by not committing to any one place, that while I have plenty of spots to land, I never quite know where to call home anymore. Too much quiet time in nature makes me crave a city weekend; when I’m on a city trip I miss my walks in the woods. None of us can have it all, I know.
Will I have signed a twelve-month lease by the end of 2023? Likely no. Do I want to? Probably not. Will I cry in an airport in 2023? Almost certainly.
But with the inevitable bittersweet tears comes the truth I always remember: home comes from the life I make in all the places I spend time. It’s my brother sleeping on the couch the night before I leave so he makes sure he can say goodbye before my early flight. It’s knowing I have a friend or two in almost any city I visit. Perhaps most importantly, realizing that my lack of a concrete home helps me uncover my reactions to different places.
Bit by bit, I make a home wherever I go.
Mallory’s 5 Favorite Things
I don’t have kids, but @thatmountainlife is my favorite Instagram account. It mainly consists of a dad teaching his kids to ski, which inspires me as I try to become a better skier this year, too.
I watched Hacks on HBO this summer during a particularly stressful time and it quickly became a fave. Refreshing with a splash of dark humor.
Another show recommendation: Derry Girls on Netflix. Particularly delightful for former Catholic schoolgirls (me).
Florence and the Machine’s Dance Fever was my 2022 anthem and thus far has carried into 2023.
It’s winter and my face is dry. I’ve used this moisturizer for about a year now and it’s now the only one I love.
In gratitude,
Mallory Price
P.S. Mallory would love to hear from our readers. She’s asking: What makes your home, home?