We called my grandmother Mamaw when I was growing up. (Pronounced: Maww-maww). It was the 80’s in the rural south, so that didn’t sound odd to me at the time. My Mamaw had a huge, sweet tooth and was a type-two diabetic. She became an adult in America’s golden age of processed foods, the 1950’s. Looking back, I know showed her love by feeding others, as many grandmothers do. When my brother and I were at Mamaw’s house, it was an absolute free-for-all when it came to junk food and nearly limitless screen time. This was a stark contrast to the home we lived in with our parents, which consisted of a mostly healthy diet and plenty of outside playtime.

One thing that really baffles me is the enormous quantity of artificial sweetener that was offered to me and my brother as children. Mamaw called my brother and I “booger” (it was intended as a term of endearment). She’d bring bowls of sugary fruit loops to the dining room table, and then would reach over to the lazy-Susan and grab a packet of Equal from a canister, and ask: “Hey booger, is that sweet enough for ya? Want a packet of Equal in it?” I kid you not! My grandmother poured straight aspartame into our breakfast cereal, called us “booger” and none of us thought anything of it. This explains a lot about my metabolism and a habit of drinking too many diet-sodas.

Recently Jacob, the kids, and I watched the movie Steel Magnolias. They’d never seen it. I, on the other hand, lost count of how many times I’ve seen it a long time ago. I could have recited every line while we watched, but I choose not to. Steel Magnolias paints an intimate picture of small-town, Southern life and the women that hold their community and families together with love, humor, and sheer determination. At the end of the movie Jacob said “I feel like I know you better now”. It was a little bit funny, but my heart swelled and I felt seen. Knowing he saw past the big hair and ridiculous nicknames to the heart of it.

There is a longing for home, in the pit of my heart, nearly all the time. Meanwhile, I have created a home with Jacob and the kids which I love and am deeply rooted into. Going back and forth between cultures and communities has become my norm. It’s like having two feet, in two places. Or two sides of my heart, rather.

Recently I read “Crying in H Mart” by Michelle Zauner. A heartbreakingly beautiful memoir, documenting a Korean American woman’s experience of grieving the death of her mother. Michelle reveals that growing up she often rejected her Korean heritage, but in her grief, she experienced comfort from embracing her family history and returning to its culture and specifically, its food. It struck a chord with me. I too have been guilty of rejecting certain aspects of my culture of origin, fearing that I would be labeled or misunderstood. Or trying to head someone off at the pass (I don’t even like sweet tea, thank you very much!) before an embarrassing assumption could be made.

“Finding yourself" is not really how it works. You aren't a ten-dollar bill in last winter's coat pocket. You are also not lost. Your true self [home???] is right there, buried under cultural conditioning, other people's opinions, and inaccurate conclusions you drew as a kid that became your beliefs about who you are. "Finding yourself" is actually returning to yourself. An unlearning, an excavation, a remembering who you were before the world got its hands on you.” ~ Emily McDowell

This experience is certainly not unique to me. Many of my friends and loved ones have their own version of this same feeling. We’re all from somewhere else, regardless of where we were born. My sweet mother-in-law, moved to California over forty-five years ago. Last summer, while we were on a family vacation, she said, “I don’t think I’ll ever get over the east-coast”. I get it. As the world gets both bigger and smaller and more transient. People come and go, and this longing comes with the territory. Honoring it for what it is, an expression of love for something good and beautiful that lives in our hearts and points us back to who we are. That is what brings us home.