I live in a group home and have since March 2016. It’s a very nice place and has done wonders for my independence, but it isn’t home. Home is about 25 miles away, which is about 20 minutes maybe a half an hour if you’re a slow driver. For the first twenty years of my life I lived in the same house my parents had moved into around ’95 when I was an infant and later bought from my grandparents in the early 00’s. My dad, his wife (who is not my mom, but more on that later) and younger brother still live in the house I grew up in where I still visit when I can.

Home is where my mom succumb to a near decade long illness and gained her wings. Home has been the backdrop to one wedding, countless birthday parties and 20+ years of memories throughout the family. But if it weren’t for some people who loved me enough to both metaphorically and literally push me out of the nest Home is where I’d still be, not really living just existing among familiar walls.

It is on nights like tonight after a day with my family, a part of me longs to go home. Watching my dad leave down the driveway of the group home is always hard after spending a day together. It’s an act that brings me back to the day about a year and a half ago where I begged him with every fiber of my being to bring me back home. My first days here were the worst days of my life.

Don’t mistake my ocassional yearning for the familiar as a dislike for my new life. I love my life now and feel as though I’m becoming who I’m supposed to be. I often think about what would have and wouldn’t have happened if my family had given into my pleads. Home is a nice place to visit, but every plant needs to be replanted to grow eventually.