Finding Home

Thirteen years ago, I left home with a red duffle bag in my hand. Even then, my heart knew—things would never be the same. I wouldn’t return home the way I used to, after school each day, after long vacations at my grandparents’ house, or after those educational excursions we went on from school. This was different.

I had left to prepare for medical school and stayed away for two months before returning home for a short visit. But when I came back to Kathmandu, I knew—I wanted to pursue pharmacy school instead. And so, I threw myself into it wholeheartedly.

The next five years I spent in Kathmandu, earning my pharmacy degree, were probably some of the best years of my life. Our 13th batch of pharmacy students had a reputation—we were the most fun, the liveliest group on campus. Since there were only 20 of us, and just a handful of teachers, we were all connected on Facebook. After each of our many day trips, there would be a buzz around campus—“The 13th Batch went here… did that… had so much fun.”

Living away from home gave me a taste of a different kind of freedom. Heartfelt conversations over steaming cups of masala tea at various campus canteens still fill my heart to this day. I remember walking back to my hostel room after these long conversations, feeling full—emotionally full. What a beautiful memory to hold onto.

But I missed home. Anyone who knew me back then would tell you—I was the first to hop on a bus and leave for home the moment I knew we had a break. I was known in my class for leaving Kathmandu often. No matter how much fun I had with friends, I always longed to return to my people. And with our many festivals arriving so often, that longing only deepened. As much as I tried to travel back home, it was not always possible to catch up with all the festivities.

I remember one time in particular—I had decided to stay back and skip one of my favorite festivals. With no close relatives nearby in the city, I got so lonely. I called my mom, packed a bag, and an hour later, I was on a bus home. I reached that night, stayed the next day, and returned the day after. It was a lot of travel, but looking back now, I realize—home was still within reach. I can still picture the joy on my mother’s face when she saw me, and the sadness when she realized it wouldn’t last. But she made peace with it, as mothers often do.

I don't remember exactly when the dream formed, but from my first day of undergrad, I knew I would go to the US for my master’s degree. I didn’t know how, or when, or what it would all look like—only that I would leave to get that degree. After working as a hospital pharmacist for a few months, it became clear to me: I couldn’t do it anymore. I’d rather go back to school. And so began the journey toward graduate school in the US.

In 2018, I left home again. Only this time, the definition of "home" had expanded. I hadn’t just left my parents’ house—I had left HOME, you know?

It didn’t really hit me until the plane started to land. That realization—that home was now a 24-hour flight away, that I was on the other side of the world—hit hard. At first, it was fine. Everything was new and busy. But once life fell into rhythm—apartment, class, assignments, library, back to the apartment—I started to feel the weight. Every day, walking the quiet streets between my apartment and campus, I’d ask myself, “What the heck am I doing here, so far away from home? From my people?”

This time, it wasn’t just about missing a place. I was missing HOME—everything that had made me, me.

The first two years were tough. I felt like a bug in a jar. I had gone from experiencing the freedom of Kathmandu to feeling confined to just my apartment and campus. The shift was enormous.

But somehow, things began to change. I adjusted. I made friends. I connected with people. I finished school. I got a job. Life got better—so much better. Then life took over. Responsibilities took over. As I gained confidence and achieved more, life became a series of one thing after another. Different things filled up my mental space, and slowly, the memory of home began to fade.

Honestly, for the most part, I stopped missing it—except during the festivals. That never changed. You can recreate memories anywhere, but you can’t replicate the spirit of those celebrations away from home.

Lately, though, I’ve felt different. For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been getting these flashes—random, vivid memories. As birds chirp outside my apartment window, I’m transported back to my childhood home. I can feel spring in those memories. I see the flowers my mom used to plant blooming suddenly in our yard. The deep blue sky. The cuckoo birds would sing, and I’d know the blackberries were ripe—I could pick them from the neighbors’ trees. My heart would leap at the sight of colorful paragliders floating in the sky. And the majestic Annapurna range, especially on those clear days, would fill me with awe.

Back then, it was just spring. Normal. Now, those moments feel like magic. And as these memories return, so does a realization—I’ve been away from home for so long. And in the process of adjusting and building a life here, I’ve maybe drifted away from myself, too.

In this constant go-go of life, in connecting with others, maybe now it’s time to connect with me.

Maybe home is an abstract thing. As life moves forward, we may not always be able to go back—at least not physically. But we can build home wherever we go. But before we do that, we have to come home to ourselves. We have to reconnect with the person we’ve always been. And when you find yourself again, maybe building a home anywhere in the world won’t feel so impossible.

Or maybe—you are your HOME. Built from every precious memory, every moment you’ve carried with you through time. And no one can take that away.

So, as you continue building your home—both literally and metaphorically—look inward. Reconnect. Revisit yourself. That’s where your true HOME is.

And since it’s spring, and spring cleaning is in the air, take a moment to clean your home—emotionally, spiritually. Keep what matters most. Let go of what doesn’t. Heal. And hold tight to the parts that make you, you.

I wish you luck finding your HOME. 😊