Home isn’t the house on the corner of that street, or the driveway through the woods, or the wrap around porch. Home isn’t a place on a map, the location or city.

Home is the smell. The faint smell of homemade baked goods permanently in the oven. The smell of your Christmas tree, evergreen mixed with pine needles. The smell of cinnamon and sugar cookie candles and your Grandma’s sweater.

Home is the feeling. The feeing of perfect peace, with nothing on your agenda—no stress, no deadlines, no due dates for a little while. The feeling of nostalgia that hits you as you walk into your childhood bedroom.

Home is the taste. The taste of way too many desserts because they are everywhere. The taste of candy canes, pumpkin pie, gingerbread. The taste of cookie dough as you cut out sugar cookies on Christmas Eve.

Home is the season and everything it stands for. The season of Christmas, the most wonderful time of the year. The season of snowflakes and family and church and giving and everything in-between. The season of faith, of good cheer, of something more than yourself.

Home is the sound. The sound of holiday music in the background, of relatives chattering from room to room, of your dog’s collar and the oven bell ringing. All of the small sounds that you forget about when you’re away.

But mostly, home is heartbeats. Home is reuniting with the friends who know you the best, driving down the highway with music blaring, just like old times. It’s being on the couch with your family, curled up in blankets, watching a movie, and realizing that you just wanted their presence. It’s your dog running around you licking your face, the most loyal and joyful being you’ll ever be around. It’s grocery shopping and passing familiar faces, with a small smile and wave.

Being home for the holidays is remembering that no matter how much you love your independence, home will always be so much more than a just place to go back to.