Today I learnt that newborn babies can have “womb-sick” (homesick for womb) for a period of time after they were born.
And I do have homesick. The real one.
Thanks to the pandemic, I can’t fly home. Being away from my family for two years hasn’t been easy.
Home is never just a place. It’s a combination of everything in an experience.
It’s your closest family. It’s the smell of your newly washed clothes. It’s the taste of your breakfast and dinner.
For me, that home is not where I’m living right now. It’s on the other side of this world, literally.
It’s where I grew up, where I learnt what is love, where my dream started.
It’s where I always go back. It’s where my roots are.
It’s where my mother was. It was, and still is, my mother.
Then I realised, I will be home for my daughter.
She will grow up with me, learn what is love, build up her dream.
I want to be her home so she can always come back, where she can sleep well, regain her energy when she’s tired.
I love my home. But I will be hers. I’m building the space, and being the essence of that home, for her.
Because I’m strong enough to be hers, even if I’m not at mine.