Before I moved abroad, I thought “home” was a fixed thing — a flat, a city, maybe the contents of my sock drawer. I didn’t expect it to become a feeling. Or to find it in places where I couldn’t speak the language but could order a coffee like a local.

Living in different countries forced me to rethink what I thought I needed — and to notice all the things I never realised I was carrying with me.

I thought I’d miss the big stuff. I missed the weirdest things.

I assumed I’d miss only my friends, my family, maybe the childhood meal I loved. But instead, it was my place at my family table. The smell of crumpets for breakfast. The knowing where everything is in my town. It was walking past my local bakery and knowing exactly what everything tasted like. It was the way Brits queue without ever being told to.

It was occasional pick’n’ mix sweets. Good butter. My Aldi soy milk. The background hum of life you don’t notice until it’s gone.

I didn’t long for “home” — I missed the weird, deeply personal comforts that didn’t mean much until they weren’t there.

Home started showing up in new places

It started small: the market vendors remembering my order. Knowing where the good avocados were sold. The sound of motorbikes passing by and not flinching.

I built rituals. Regular walks in Benjakitti park. Morning walks in the rice fields. I’ve had many favourite matcha places, favourite corners, and a go-to meal for when I was tired.

I didn’t just adapt — I settled. And slowly, these little pieces made a place feel like mine. Home wasn’t a postcode anymore. It was the feeling of slipping into a routine that fit better than expected.

You don’t always have to choose one

One of the hardest parts is that I started feeling at home… in more than one place.

I lived in Bangkok for 3 years, and all I wanted until I landed was to be away from the UK. In Bangkok, I missed being in the same timezone. In Hoi An, I missed supermarkets. In Sri Lanka, I missed fresh bahn mi bread and Grab motorbikes.

But instead of trying to choose, I let the idea expand. Home could be a few places at once — stitched together in memory, taste, routine. I wasn’t from just one version of myself anymore. And that’s okay.

Going back is harder than leaving

No one warns you that going “home” is the part that could sting.

Things look the same, but you’ve changed. You speak differently, you move slower. You’ve seen too much and lived too far outside your bubble to slot back in seamlessly.

People ask “how was it?” like you’ve returned from a two-week holiday, not 2 years, 1 identity shift, a career change and a different relationship.

It’s disorienting. Familiar and foreign at the same time. But it makes you realise just how much you’ve grown — and how your definition of home has stretched in all directions.

Living abroad didn’t make me lose my idea of home. It made it bigger.

Home is still beans on toast and overpriced snack runs — but it’s also market spices, motorbike chaos, beach walks at sunset, and new friends I never expected to love so much.

Living abroad didn’t make me forget where I came from. It just gave me more places I belong to.