I moved around as a kid. A lot. By the time I entered middle school, I had moved approximately ten times. During my early development, I had moved to New York (the city twice, and upstate once) and Southern Florida six times. Indiana for a year. Another four towns/cities in central Florida.

When I went away to college, I chose to move out-of-state and attend a private college in Virginia, Sweet Briar College. After a year there, for a multitude of reasons, despite loving Sweet Briar deeply, I chose to transfer to Mills College in the Bay Area of California where I am now continuing on as a third-year student.

Now, none of this is me complaining. I’ve seen the beauty of both coasts. I’ve lived in the mountains of Virginia (a place that is so gorgeous it almost makes me believe in God), the vibrant concrete jungle that is New York City, the land of fun and sun that is Florida and the socially conscious artistic Oakland. I have no regrets about where I’ve lived, or how these places have all shaped my world. However, that being said, the truth is, I am regionally confused.

Regionally confused is a phrase I came up with (at least as far as I know I did) which describes the state of not having a specific region to call home. Being that I am regionally confused, I am always struck by a sense of conflict when people ask, “Where are you from?” Typically, there’s a second of panic followed by, “Florida and New York.” This is almost always inevitably followed by, “How can you be from both?”

Despite living in Indiana for a year, I have virtually no memory of it. Virginia is like my long lost love but not home, and California (while beautiful, and filled with extraordinary people) is far too West Coast for a born and raised East Coast girl. Florida is where I was born. It’s where I spent the last twelve years of my life. It’s where my family is, my dogs are, and Disney World (and yes, Disney World is the happiest place on this Earth). Florida is warm and safe. New York is where my family is from. It’s where I learned to be tough as nails. It’s where I fell in love with theater and art and music and food. New York is alluring and ideal.

I’ve been known to say “coffee” like a character out of "Law & Order," while addressing a collective group of people as “y’all,” (and yes, auto-correct, y’all is a word!) in the same sentence.

The truth is, I don’t have a “home” in the traditional sense of the word. Home to me isn’t a specific place. It’s not this tangible location that I can run to when I feel scared. I’ve never lived in a house that was “home.” I don’t have stories about falling over the staircase or having my height measured into the wall as I got older.

While I may not have a home in the sort of way that others do, I feel home. I feel at home when I wear denim shorts, and southern comfort t-shirts. I feel at home when I eat dollar slice pepperoni pizza. I feel at home when I feel the sun burning my arm that's hanging out the side of the car getting a farmer's tan. I feel at home confronting someone who knocks into me when they think I’m going to back down. I feel at home when I say, "Yes sir," and, "No, ma'am." I feel at home with a Papaya King hot dog, and Publix Sweet Tea. I alternate between listening to Reba McEntire and Johnny Cash and Jay-Z and Alicia Keys. I can go in one second from, “Why don’t you come and say that to my face?!” to smiling and saying, “Oh bless your little heart!” for the exact same offense.

Home isn’t always a place. Home is a state of being. It is the collection of affectations which you have developed thanks to your environment. Home is the bite of something or a sip of something that makes a small smile appear on your face. Home is the music playing in the living room that you listened to from the comfort of your bed while your Mom cleaned.