Living between two cities and countries comes with a specific kind of exhaustion that isn’t about lack of sleep or a busy schedule. It’s about the weight of having two versions of life. Two versions of self.
The five-hour drive between my two homes is a strange sort of transformation. Like letting go of one home and stepping into another every single time.
The road is always a mix of feelings. There’s a longing for home. Ache from leaving and the fear of what I’m leaving behind. Nostalgia for what could be. It’s like poking a scabbed wound. And then, it’s as if letting out a breath I held for a while. Calm. Familiarity. Excitement.
Crossing the border feels like a shift, and not only in the literal sense. I’m almost stepping into another world. The roads are different. The weather shifts right after I cross the “Welcome” sign. People drive differently. Buildings have other colours.
But then I’m home again. Stepping into the apartment I love is like an instant switch. There’s my favourite couch, my bed, the mug I left on the counter last time, and the familiar scent of home. It’s not the same in each home, but it is painfully mine all the same. I’m still the same person, but my edges soften. I switch to a different language without a thought. I make plans I wouldn’t make in the other city.
And no matter how much I tell myself to enjoy my time there, I never stop missing the other place.
— until the next thought.