Three months into their family’s move away from the default, Claire sat down to write this one on their last evening near Dubrovnik, Croatia, on a balcony overlooking a canal with boats and small yachts drifting quietly in and out. It’s her honest answer to a question she suspects a lot of people want to ask.
Do I Miss Home?
Do I miss home? Of course I do.
This one’s a bit different to what we usually write, more of a reflection than a lesson or a list of tips. But we think the quiet, honest parts of this life matter just as much as the practical ones, so here it is, unedited.
I miss the obvious things. Seeing my mum and dad and my sister regularly. Catching up with friends over food and a proper gossip. I even miss work sometimes, though I don’t think it’s the work itself. It’s the colleagues, the friends there, that everyday socialising. I miss all of it.
Some of that I get to fix a little. We’re on regular FaceTime terms with family, and I’m still in all my friends’ WhatsApp groups, so in some ways I’m still talking back and forth the way I would if I were at home. Having a visit from my parents and my nephew here in Croatia gave me more of a proper fix of that too, though I do wonder if seeing them recently is part of why I’m feeling this way right now. I think that’s normal. It makes sense to miss the people you’d normally see all the time, and I’m not worried about it. I know it’s completely normal.
The things you don’t expect to miss
What’s caught me off guard is missing the small, ordinary things. Wandering around my own house. Wandering around my own garden, just because I can.
I miss my bed.
I miss my pillow. Desperately. Nothing has come close since we left.
It sounds like such a strange thing to admit, but I even miss putting on a big fluffy dressing gown and slippers. That cosy feeling.
I think for me it’s a bit of a sensory thing. I’ve always lived a fast-paced life, running on adrenaline, usually with hectic days at work. By the time I’d got home, had a shower and put that dressing gown on, that was my self-care. My signal that the day was done. It’s a small ritual, but it relaxes me properly.
My mum knows this about me, and when she visited us in Croatia she brought me a dressing gown and slippers. Not the big fluffy one, just a lovely thin cotton one, but it was such a thoughtful gesture. I’ve worn it most days since.
I miss some food from home too. Three months in, and I’m genuinely craving a Sunday roast. A proper one. And at the other end of the scale, I miss something as simple as beans on toast because, when you’re travelling constantly, deciding what to eat every day can become surprisingly tiring. Sometimes you just want the easiest, most familiar meal in the world.
And, oddly, I catch myself secretly hoping for a cold or wet day, just so I can layer up. Put a jumper on. A light jacket. I think it’s the same sensory comfort as the dressing gown, that feeling of being cosy and wrapped up, which just doesn’t come along very often when it’s warm every day.
Comfort in unexpected places
We have a slightly odd tradition in our family. When my nana passed away, we decided she comes back to us as an orange and black butterfly.
Strangely, whenever I’ve needed a little lift or a moment of comfort, we’ve somehow managed to spot one. One even landed on my head once.
There have already been a few moments on this trip when one has appeared just when I’ve needed it most.
I’ll probably tell those stories properly another time, but it felt worth mentioning here because comfort while you’re away doesn’t always come from the obvious places. Sometimes it finds you in the strangest, smallest ways.
Where I’m sitting as I write this
I think the recent visit from my family might be why I’m feeling this way right now. Missing them freshly rather than missing them constantly.
But as I write this, I’m sat on a balcony overlooking a canal, watching small boats and yachts drift past. The insects are humming. The birds are still going. It feels almost surreal that we get to live like this, right now, at this point in our lives.
And then I remember everything I’ve listed above. All the things I’m missing.
The funny thing is, none of it has gone anywhere.
I’ll get back to it all eventually, when the time is right. So although I miss it now, it’s simply not part of this season of life.
Instead, we get to live something a lot of people only dream about. Something we hoped for but were never quite sure would actually happen.
And here we are.
As I write this, the sun is beginning to cool, the air feels fresh, the kids are lying on their beds after a shower watching a bit of TV, and everything feels peaceful. Ben’s making me a drink after a day spent exploring the city in the heat. I get to sit here, watch the world go by and simply be with my own thoughts. A chance to slow down, be mindful and reflect on what we’re doing and how grateful we are for the opportunity to do it.
We’ll keep living this life for as long as it feels right, and for as long as it’s possible.
One day we’ll unpack the suitcases, sleep in our own bed again and probably laugh about the things we missed most.
But for now, this is our season of life.
That’s really what Families Reimagined has become. Not a guide to travelling the world, but a reminder that whatever life you’ve imagined for yourself, it might be closer than you think if you’re willing to try.
What else is possible when missing home doesn’t mean regretting the choice to leave it?
Frequently asked questions
Is it normal to feel homesick while living this kind of life?
Completely. Missing people and the comforts of home doesn’t mean you’re doing the wrong thing. It simply means you’re human, and in our experience those feelings come and go in waves rather than staying constant.
Does seeing family in person make homesickness better or worse?
A bit of both. Seeing family is a genuine boost while they’re with you, but it can also make you miss them all over again once they’ve gone.
What helps most with homesickness on the road?
For us, it’s regular contact with family and friends, together with small comforts from home. In my case, something as simple as a dressing gown helped recreate a feeling of home, even though home itself was hundreds of miles away.
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