“It’s people, not places.”
My dear friend, Hannah, spoke this truth so gently, so decidedly to me on the phone this afternoon. It felt like the perfect place to start this essay, like the perfect place to settle in.
I’ve moved lots in the past few months, losing any sense of home in physical location I had. The longing for home is innate and relatable-we all feel it. It’s the aching to come back to something, to find safety in something. I’ve learned, more and more truly, the importance of people who are home, of allowing them to be the thing we come back to.
They’re the ones who call you and ask, “Where to?” They’re the ones who show up, drive the first leg of the trip, and ask how you’ve been, in curiosity and sincerity. They grab you coffee at the gas station and play your favorite Hall & Oates songs late into the drive.
Driving thousands of miles with Taylor was my fondest memory of this year. The time was sweet, saturated in conversations that allowed us to speak boldly into the safest space. We laughed like the world outside of our car didn’t exist. For five days, it didn’t. There's something sacred about friendships that allow you to forget, and then remember when you're ready.
The places we experienced were beautiful; but they hardly compared to the beauty of my friendship with Taylor-the essential nature of friendships that carry you, in the silence and in the otherwise. In this new year, my heart is set on people, not places. On allowing them to be my home.