I got this weird feeling I’ll never be “home” again.

This is the curse of those who lived in many places.

Years ago, I’d say “home” is where I’ve grown up. The beach. A rich cultural background, strong sense of belonging and pride that cannot be negotiated – dear reader, in case you don’t know, I’m from Pernambuco, and there we tend to say that is our country.

But I’ve moved. I had big dreams and my city easily became “too small”.

In my late 20s I have lived in Baltimore and it was enough to shake my “home” perceptions.

I shattered.

I have a broken diamond tattoo on my left arm, which, in my interpretation, represents people.

Once broken, cannot be fixed. There’s no perfect fit anymore. Not less valuable, but not a whole piece as well.

I loved Baltimore’s cozy energy, the Bay, the sound of the storms and how they were proud of their culture.

I’ve got Baltimore tattooed too.

But I missed “home”. And when I arrived back in Brazil, I realized nothing would ever be the same.

Never thought of my diamond beyond relationship circumstances before, but as of now, I guess it fits all meanings.

I have been leaving pieces of me everywhere. In every trip. In every house.

In my country we have this expression which is “drying ice out”, or basically, doing worthless effort.

This is how I feel, digging places hopeful that I will, at once, feel belonging for more than five minutes.

Want a spoiler? I won’t. Deep in my bones, I know it.

And I’m grieving.

“Home” is no longer a place.

But that’s the thing I’ve got to learn in the first place: I am my own home. Wherever I go.

And every time I feel lacking because I shattered, I’ll remember unique pieces are the rarest.