At 18, I left for Canada.

On the surface, it looked like a decision any girl my age might make — a step toward higher education, independence, a new chapter. I told others — and even myself — that I wanted better opportunities, a broader horizon, to see the world. But the truth I’ve only recently come to understand is this:

I wasn’t just going.

I was running.

Not from cruelty, not from a lack of love — but from a kind of love I couldn’t feel safe in. A love that didn’t speak the language of my soul. I was quietly aching for a kind of tenderness, a way of being held — not just in arms, but in presence. In energy. In the unsaid.

At the time, I didn’t even know where Canada was on the map. It wasn’t my first choice. But when my mother asked if I wanted to go, I said yes without hesitation — not out of certainty, but instinct. Something in me whispered: go. And I listened.

Now, years later, after peeling away layers of illusion, pain, and expectation — I see it clearly. That moment was the turning point. A sacred doorway. The beginning of my return to myself.

Canada became more than a country.

It became a cocoon.

I wasn’t just learning how to navigate a new culture, or how to cook for myself, or survive the long winters. I was learning how to sit with myself — truly sit. I cried in empty rooms. I stared out windows, searching for meaning. I broke down in silence, and I stitched myself back together, piece by piece.

In those quiet, unfamiliar spaces, I began to hear a voice I had long silenced — my own.

Not the voice shaped by expectation.

Not the good daughter, the respectful girl.

But the voice that asked: Who am I, really?

And in the echoes of those questions, I began to build a home.

A home not built of walls or certificates or achievements —

but of trust.

Of choosing myself, again and again.

I forgave the girl who left without knowing exactly why. I thanked her for her bravery. I held space for her sorrow, her longing, her confusion. I learned to mother myself — gently, fiercely, unconditionally.

And slowly, I began to understand:

I didn’t need to be loved in a certain way to be worthy of love.

I didn’t need to belong somewhere else to find belonging.

Home wasn’t a place I had to search for —

it was something I would become.

Now, when people ask me where home is, I place my hand over my heart.

Because home is not a country.

Not a language.

Not a destination.

Home is where I no longer betray myself to be accepted.

Home is where I am loved — by me.

Home is this woman I’ve fought so hard to become.