"Embracing homesickness" by Clara Robin from The Thousand Tales
Eventually, the city lost its sense of novelty, but that feeling was replaced by something deeper a home away from home, a place where I feel safe and comfortable.
By Clara Robin from The Thousand Tales
Turku feels like a second home to me now. I’ve made memories here that make coming to Turku feel like coming home. When I first arrived in Finland as an exchange student more than two years ago, it was all new and shiny - an adventure that was meant to be temporary, but I kept coming back. Eventually, the city lost its sense of novelty, but that feeling was replaced by something deeper - a home away from home, a place where I feel safe and comfortable.
I’ve even gotten used to the ambivalent feeling of having my heart in more than one place at once; that strange sensation of being happy and - perhaps not sad, but a tad melancholy at the same time. The fact of the matter is, when I leave, I inevitably leave something behind. When the feeling of homesickness hits me, it’s not solely about missing people - it’s about missing out on their lives. Simultaneously, it’s the feeling that they’re missing mine. Having lived in different countries, it feels like pieces of my heart are planted in different soils.
Luckily, we live in a world where text messages and phone calls make the yearning for loved ones a tad easier. What I’ve realized from living abroad is that it’s not about who lives just around the corner from me, it’s about who shows up. By that I don't just mean physically. I am eternally grateful to those of my friends who save up for months to come visit me, but I’m equally grateful to those who simply pick up the phone when I need them. I’m grateful for the little life updates I receive, and I do my best to return in kind.
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It's easy to get swept up in my own life and suddenly realize that I haven’t talked to some of my loved ones for weeks or even months. Life gets busy but I try to remember to include the people in my life who aren’t currently physically present in my life. Because they are still present. They are the people who always keep an empty chair for me, who never make me doubt that there will still be a seat for me when we see each other again.
Sometimes I don’t call because I’m afraid the missing will become too heavy to bear. However, if this is the price to pay for loving and being loved, even from afar, I’ll gladly pay it.
I’ve grown new, fresh roots in a new place, but the roots that made me still exist. An ambiguous feeling: having started anew, but still being rooted back home. The people I love are spread across the world and luckily there is no limit to how much and how many the human heart can love. I carry them with me wherever I go.
Turku is a home to me, but it’s not my only home. That is the privilege of being an expat. It’s also the double-edged sword; I can go back home and I’ll miss Turku. I’ll go to Turku and I’ll miss where I’ve been and where I’ve come from.
I find it important to allow the space for seemingly opposing feelings to be true simultaneously: that I’m happy to be over here, and that I’m sometimes sad not to be over there. I’ll embrace the homesickness with tears not just of sadness, but of joy, too. It is, after all, a lovely thing to have people to miss - and an even greater privilege to know that you’re missed, too.
I’ll call home again soon. Even if I have nothing special to tell, even if it’s just to lovingly talk about the Finnish weather which rarely ever seems to be able to make up its mind. Even if it’s just to hear the comforting tones of my mother tongue.
Even if it’s just to hear your voice.
Especially just to hear your voice.