There’s much to say on the topic of when a place becomes your home. Is it the people? Is it how deeply you connect with the culture? Is it when you have a bank account, a car, a job? Is it measured in milestones? Or the accumulation of memories?
Because I’m down to my last few minutes on the Cape, with half a cup of coffee to go and this laptop as the very last thing to be packed, I’ll leave that question for a future post.
Ever since I was granted my NZ resident visa in August 2025, people ask me whether or not New Zealand feels like home now. And my answer is always the same: yes, but so do the States. I have a foot very firmly planted in two very different (and distant) countries. I have two homes.
When talking to loved ones on either side of the pond, I am always hyper-aware of which country I am referring to as my “home.” I know it might sting for a close friend in NZ to hear me still referring to the States as “home,” but likewise I know it lands heavily for a family member or old friend in the States to hear me call New Zealand “home.” I not-infrequently catch myself saying something along the lines of “I can’t believe I fly home in three weeks! Well, not home-home. Other home.” And then, for clarity, I’ll add one last “Home” with air quotes, just to make sure you get it. Because I need you to understand that I understand how hard this is for you. And for me.
For the past two years, I have been lucky enough to live and work for about 1/3 of the year in the United States and the rest of the year in New Zealand. I’m able to pull this off thanks to my NZ resident visa, seasonal jobs in both countries (with incredibly understanding bosses who are okay with me leaving for a long time), family and friends who are understanding of my free spirit, and a loving and truly supportive partner who genuinely gets how important this is to me–and who not only understands but agrees that a little time apart can be good for a relationship.
As I have once again packed the contents of my life into a 21.78 lb carry-on suitcase and a 49.99996 lb checked bag and prepare to move from one country to the other one, I am struck by not only how excited I am to see NZ again, but how homesick I am for Cape Cod, even though I’m still here. It’s getting down to the “last” of everything: the last time I need to put gas in my tank, the last library book I need to return, the last few gifts I need to buy, the last time I’ll see [insert your name here] for a while. The last time I can call my sister on a whim without doing the math in my head about what time it is there. The last time I’ll be hanging with my parents for a while. And likewise, next year I’ll be running through the same cycle in reverse: the last time I need to put petrol in my tank, the last few gifts I need to buy, the last time I’ll be the one with the funny accent, the last time I’ll be able to give Stu a little peck on the cheek. Twice a year, I find myself homesick for the home I’m still in, while simultaneously excited to return to the other one. It’s a whole thick, complicated, tiring mess of emotions. But oh, how lucky am I to be able to have this life!
Pretty soon I’ll be tapping my heels together three times and repeating, “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.” And the strange and beautiful part: I’ll mean it in both directions.