I don’t know if it’s my third-culture upbringing, my Aquarius placements (IYKYK), or both—but growing up, I never truly felt like I belonged anywhere. Everywhere I went, I felt like my existence came with an asterisk, a disclaimer for why I looked like a puzzle piece that should fit, but never truly clicked into place. Thus, the quest for “my place” began.

In Bristol, I thought I’d found it—home. People wore colors, smiled at you on the street, and the city gave me my love for good coffee and making friends with strangers. But every time I heard, “What mix are you?” or “Where are you really from?” it pulled me back to reality. So the search continued.

I tried to find my home in my hometown. That lasted a grand total of 5 days. It broke my heart that I felt most alien in the country whose name I said proudly in answer to the questions I was asked in Bristol. “Not mixed, just 100% Egyptian”. Except I didn’t feel 100% anything. And marrying a non-Egyptian really put the nail in that coffin.

Years later, I thought I had (finally) found it in Dubai—the city that holds my best memories: sunset drives with my sister, Friday family breakfasts, heart-to-hearts with my best friends, meeting—and marrying—my soulmate. The city where I met the girls who made me realise the true feeling of a Chosen Family. The idea of moving away sent me into a spiral. I couldn’t leave, not now. How could I live anywhere that wasn’t within a 20-minute drive from them?

And so I stayed, and the physical distance remained, but gradually, the emotional distance widened—a heartbreaking shift that left me wondering if the home I’d found had quietly slipped away.

I was crushed. At twenty-nine years old, I was transported back to 10-year-old me, sitting alone in the corner of her new school in a new country, not knowing where she belonged.

That’s when I put my search for Home in a cold-case box and shoved it to the back of my mind. Because the truth is, home was never a place. It was never a person, either. It wasn’t the city that fit my aesthetic or the country I was born in. Home wasn’t the friends I entrusted with my laughs, tears, and emotions.

Home is, and always was, a fleeting feeling. Home is the scent of a perfume my friend’s mum used to wear when we were little kids. Home is the comfort of sitting in silence for hours with my sister. Home is a beautiful orange and purple sunset on a day that felt too heavy. Home is seeing a butterfly on my walk home and knowing that my best friend is up there looking over me. Home is Cairo, but only when my mum is there to welcome me in her warm arms. Home is my grandma’s lesan asfour soup, scorching hot, with a squeeze of lemon and more orzo than broth. Home is a voice note from my long distance friend, telling me about her day as if the miles between us meant nothing. Home is my dad’s words of encouragement, regardless of how big or small my accomplishment is. Home is a surprise birthday gift delivered to my door, with presents only my bestie could know I’d like.

Home is in every laugh, every over-cooked rice dish, every forehead kiss, every trashy TV series, every Oasis car ride singalong, every Coffee & Walk, every “goodnight” and “good morning” I share with the love of my life.

The plot twist is, I carry all my homes in my heart, memory, and every fiber of my soul, no matter where I go. Home, as it turns out, has been within me all along.