Yesterday, I found myself wondering why everyone's definition of home is so different.

The people closest to me at school often wonder why I jump at every opportunity to go home.

The truth is, I have three different definitions of home.

Osun. Ogun. Lagos.

Osun is where I belong—the place where welcomes never feel like goodbyes, where family comes in different forms, villages, and faces.

Ogun will always have a piece of my heart. A part of me. It's where I spent most of my life. It's familiar. It's comfortable. It's home to people who feel like home.

Then there's Lagos.

A place that was once unfamiliar but slowly yet subtly became one of my safest places. Not because of the place—definitely not. 

But because of the people.

I've met many amazing people in life, but only a few have made me stop and question what home truly is.

Maybe home is a place where you feel safe.

Or maybe it's simply a place that makes you feel safe.

Then another thought crossed my mind.

How many places could feel like home if I gave them the chance?

Perhaps I've been so attached to the places I already love that I've never allowed anywhere else to become one.

Now I've realised something.

Home isn't necessarily where you were born.

It isn't always where you live.

It isn't even always where the people you love are.

Sometimes, home is simply where you can breathe.

Where you don't have to pretend.

Where you feel seen.

Where you can be completely, unapologetically yourself.

Maybe home isn't the people.

Maybe it isn't the food.

Maybe, just maybe, it isn't even the place.

Maybe it's where you can dance awkwardly, laugh hysterically, play childishly…

Maybe,

Home is the version of yourself that feels free.

Maybe home is me.

Now I'm curious.

What does home mean to you?

Is it a place, a person, a memory, a feeling... or something else entirely?

I'd genuinely love to read your thoughts.