It has been seven years.
The last time I was in Galați, my hometown in Romania, was to see my grandmother for what I knew would be the last time.
When I was 11, my parents decided to move to Germany, leaving all our friends and family behind. They made the decision within about three months, which left little time for any of us to prepare. We didn’t know anyone in Germany. We didn’t speak the language. We knew almost nothing about the country.
I was thrilled!
Germany had never been my dream destination, but the idea of moving somewhere new had always fascinated me, even as a child.
What I didn’t anticipate was how difficult it would be to change countries and cultures at that age. At 11, you’re old enough to remember where you came from and to feel like a stranger somewhere else, but still young enough that much of your identity hasn’t formed yet.
I never properly learned about Romanian history, politics, culture, or mentality. My understanding of Romania was limited to a child’s perspective. I grew into adulthood surrounded by German influences, yet I never experienced a German childhood.
The result?
I don’t feel entirely connected to either country.
As soon as I was old enough to live on my own, I became a wanderer. I moved from place to place, traveled whenever I could, and continued doing what had once excited that 11-year-old girl.
But what began as an adventure has, 25 years later, become an exhausting way of life.
For a long time, I thought I traveled simply because I loved it. And I do love exploring new places. But after moving from one place to another for so many years, I’ve had to admit something to myself:
I’m not only traveling.
I’m running away.
Somewhere along the way, I lost the sense of “home” I thought my family would always provide. And perhaps every new place became another attempt to find it again—to stumble upon a city, a country, a community where something inside me would finally say:
Here. You belong here.
It hasn’t happened.
No matter how much I love exploring the world, I yearn to settle down. I want a place where I can build a nest, feel protected, and recharge. Somewhere I can relax, develop relationships, and enjoy even the most mundane days without already thinking about where I’ll go next.
Returning to my Romanian hometown, I wondered if the sense of home I’ve been searching for might still be here.
Perhaps my roots had remained beneath the surface all these years, waiting for me to return and reconnect with the place where I belonged.
But just like everywhere else I’ve lived, I feel as much a stranger here as anywhere.
The roots I once had here withered a long time ago. Neither my family nor I nurtured them. And while I’ve put down new roots in Germany, they’ve never grown deep enough to truly anchor me there either.
So where does that leave me?
After 36 years of searching, I’m exhausted.
I refuse to settle somewhere simply because I should. I don’t want to choose a place out of resignation and call it home because I’m tired of looking. But I’m beginning to understand that perhaps I’ve been asking places to give me something they can’t give me on their own.
Roots don’t appear because you’ve finally discovered the perfect patch of soil. They grow because you stay. Because you nurture relationships. Because you build routines and memories. Because you allow yourself to become attached, even though attachment means having something to lose.
Maybe the home I’m looking for isn’t waiting somewhere on a map for me to find it.
Maybe I have to build it.
And perhaps that begins with creating a home within myself—a quiet, safe place I don’t have to run away from. Then, one day, when I find somewhere I want to stay, maybe I’ll finally be able to stop searching long enough to let my roots grow.