We’ve all heard the term, “Home for the Holidays.” We’ve seen it on peoples’ Instagrams, captioning a nicely filtered photo of a boarding ticket alongside an airplane emoji. Going home for the holidays has a comforting ring to it. I’ve always loved going home for the holidays.
The older I get (at my wise and mature age of twenty), the more I realize that home isn’t exclusively a place. It’s not exactly an awe-inspiring original idea, I know. While a place can feel like home, I’ve found it never completely feels 100% right unless you have the right people there to share it with. By this point, I probably sound like a sappy old grandma, but a house really is not a home without the people that make you happy.
While I love the idea of going “home for the holidays”, I never actually do it. I always spend the holidays in the city that both of my parents grew up and met in. Salt Lake City is vastly different from the city of Irvine that I call home, with its urban center, rocky mountains and piles and piles of snow. Despite these differences, it always somehow feels like I am coming home. Although the city streets are unfamiliar to me and I could not drive to the nearest grocery store without getting lost, the familiar faces of cousins and relatives make up for this. Although I only ever come once or twice a year, I always feel a sense of home.
Every year, my dad questions, “Do we need to go back to Utah this year?” A few years we have stayed in California, and despite all my immediate family being together, unwrapping presents under our own tree, it doesn’t quite feel right. I’m quite glad that I have such a large extended family to go home to, away from home.
