Home was never a place—it was a question I asked in every language I learned to say goodbye in, embodying the notion of home as a question of identity through global experiences. As I experienced different cultures, the idea of home had worn many different faces through these international experiences. I never unpacked fully, just enough to begin again.
By the time I turned eighteen, I had lived in seven countries. Each one gave me a different lens through which to see the world—and myself. Through global experiences, home became intricately tied to identity.
Though my roots are Greek, they’ve been shaped by winds that blew far beyond the Aegean. They are braided with languages, customs, and faiths. Exposure to colourful traditions, distinct from my own, has shaped the way I engage with the world. These roots, intertwined with the customs of many worlds, have made curiosity the compass by which I navigate my life. In Ukraine, I watched the streets of Kyiv bloom with colour on Vyshyvanka Day, and understood how national pride could be woven into every thread of tradition. In Egypt, the Iftar table during Ramadan was more than a meal; it symbolised home as a question of identity and was a gathering where connection simmered in every dish, where food wasn’t just served, it was offered. And in the UAE, the swirl of dialects mirrored the country’s mosaic of cultures. I learned that diversity isn’t just celebrated—it’s lived, reinforcing home as a question of identity through global experiences. Each accent carried a different homeland, and together they formed something entirely new.
Curiosity became my compass.
But not all of my lessons came from maps and borders.
Every place offered a new rhythm, a new lesson and a new story. And while my passport filled with stamps, my understanding of the world deepened with nuance. With every move, I learned how to blend in, how to begin again. But I also started asking: if I’m always leaving, if I’m always starting over—then where is home, really? Is home found when one’s identity is questioned by global experiences?
For years, I searched for home in many places. I chased home across continents. But the more I moved, the clearer it became: home was never the walls that surrounded me; it was the family that grounded me, the classrooms that welcomed me, the mentors who believed in me, and the friends who turned strangers into family. Though my roots are Greek, it’s the exposure to many worlds that carved my values. These roots, stretched across continents, have made curiosity the compass by which I navigate my life.
Yet, beyond geography, beyond history and culture, my deepest understanding came from a more intimate journey.
At 15, my brain became a battlefield. The illness was just the beginning. The isolation of being sick, of not knowing what was next, stuck with me long after I left the hospital. I began to see that while hospitals treat the body, they often forget the heart. In these rooms lined with IV drips and whispered prayers, I saw children whose eyes carried stories their voices could not tell. I realised that the scars etched in the mind often outlast the healing of the body.
Healing is never only physical.
It demands facing what doesn’t bruise, naming what doesn’t show, and carrying what can’t be fixed. Because it is not only the battles we see.
Trauma doesn’t vanish—it roots itself quietly in the corners of who we are. It shapes the way we love, trust, and dream. And that’s okay. Healing isn’t erasing the past—it’s learning to carry it differently. I’ve learned that the wounds we carry, seen or unseen, are the ones that demand the most care. They’re the reason I wake up each day thinking about how I can make life a little easier for someone else. This experience reflects the question of identity, home and how global interactions can shift perceptions.
Life’s irony is that you are a different person to everyone you meet. Life has a quiet way of showing you that you are never just one thing to all people. Who we are shifts—with the roles we take on, the stories we carry, and the spaces we step into.
Because I’ve been the kid in the hospital bed. And I’ve also been the girl who knew what it meant to feel alone in a room full of people. Today, I’m a woman who hears what isn’t said, and builds the stage for others to stand on.
So I remind myself: Remember how fiercely you wished for what you have now. And above all—remember, she’d see you now, and she’d exhale!
