Home is Where My Heart Thrives
Amelia Giese (She/Her)
Editorial Team Member
The most classic definition of home is “where one lives,” but I disagree. Sure, I live in my home, but that’s not my only refuge.
The pool is my home. I love the smell of the chlorine, staring at the blue tiles for hours on end while swimming countless laps. I love hearing the buzzer and being surrounded by cold when I jump in to race. I love blocking goals and getting hit in the head while playing water polo.
The pool is my home.
The stage is my home. I love the calluses on my fingers from years of playing violin. The sweet sound of symphonies floating through the air, the heat of the spotlights. I love the giant white stain of rosin that always seems to find its way on my black dress.
The stage is my home.
The woods are my home. I love hearing unknown noises in the middle of the night, the fear running through my veins after assuming it’s a bear. I love hearing the wind rustle the trees and the crunch of dead leaves when I step on them. I love trudging through the bushes trying to find big enough sticks to build a lean-to.
The woods are my home.
My friends are my home. I love hearing impersonations or teasing about my clumsiness. I love running around town in the middle of the night, looking for something to do. I love our beach bonfires where we burn our schoolwork and our annual holiday sleepovers. I love our endless inside jokes. I love the whispers of shared secrets and shouts of complaints.
My friends are my home.
Baseball is my home. I love manifesting home runs and strikeouts for my favorite teams. I love hearing yells at the umpires and the monstrous cheers when we win. I love watching fans lose their minds during the postseason. I love making fun of awful plays by other teams and the horrible moves made by managers. I love memorizing statistics and players.
Baseball is my home.
My family is my home. I love hearing fights over who gets the last cupcake or who gets to use the computer. I love the absolute nonsense that comes out of my siblings’ mouths and making fun of each other. I love the taste of my grandma’s food and taking my mom’s things. I love watching movies and TV shows together and listening to the God awful music my sister insists on playing.
My family is my home.
Music is my home. I love singing along to happy songs and crying to sad ones. I love feeling the bassline vibrate in my chest and drumming along to the rhythm. I love singing every single song off key. I love jumping and screaming at concerts, my throat raw and my hearing gone.
Music is my home.
To me, home is not just where your body lives, but also where your heart thrives. That is my definition of home.