Anyone who knows me knows that I struggle with the occasional bout of homesickness. A privilege reserved for Third Culture Kids, expats, immigrants and refugees, this is the sense of belonging everywhere and nowhere, all at once.

Every year, September brings a crisp freshness and a promise for change. We know what’s coming next… a cold, hard winter that will most certainly seem impossible to crawl out of. But, before that, there is Fall… the time for contemplation.

The homesick among us quickly learn to greet the changing environment with open arms. We know that it is futile to hang on to the fleeting, so we might as well enjoy the new view. It is during this season that we remember the cyclical nature of life, and recognize the absurdity of existence. Here today, gone tomorrow. The Phoenix must burn to ashes before it can be reborn.

Only when we stand amongst the trees do we begin to understand the nature of our own lives. As we feel the first and final breaths of life at our fingertips, the homesickness begins to bubble up again. The imminence of death sparks the nomadic instinct to go, go, go. Hit the road, Jack, it’s time to go back home.

Every year, I ignore this instinct, nestle into Autumn jackets and decorate my house with pumpkins. I cocoon myself into that warm shelter, close my eyes, and visualize the places and people I love. I vow that my love will persist, even through the piercing winter. Over the years, as I braved every falling leaf, I somehow learned to love the foreign just enough to let my anchor rest a little longer.

But Spring is always just around the corner, despite the perceived endlessness of the winter, and the wind of change is bound to blow. Every year, it’s a little louder. How long can sleeping dreams lie?

Hit the road, Jack. It’s time to go back home.

And remember… you design your own luck!

M.