When Home Feels Foreign

August 2015– the day I left New Zealand for good.

Foreign is the word that best describes the heaviness I felt on my chest the day I stepped back onto the streets of my hometown, Surabaya, Indonesia.

How could something familiar feel strange at the same time? The humidity struck my forehead, and a mix of heavy Javanese accents, gibbering, bustling traffic, and vehicles honking overstimulated my senses. Plenty of things remained the same, yet I had lost my fluency—as if the city no longer spoke the same language.

Still, the feeling of sleeping on my own bed and eating my favorite “welcome home” snack: terang bulan or martabak manis — a type of thick pancake filled with butter, melted chocolate sprinkles, cheddar, and condensed milk— always won my heart.

Being 20 years old and being “lured” back home under my parents’ roof was not the best idea. Three years of freedom ended right when I walked through that door, and I felt like I was back at square one. They say once you leave home and live in another country, your heart belongs to more than one place.

The definition of “home” begins to blur— even the most familiar and comfortable bed no longer cradled me to sleep.

When familiarity started to feel like confinement, I did the only thing that ever brought me clarity — I packed a bag. Not for long this time, only a week of a solo trip to Labuan Bajo, on Komodo Island. It was more than a scuba diving holiday; I was reclaiming my life— a trip back to myself, to fall in love with life again.

Underwater, everything slowed. I heard only breath and the bubbles rising. I observed sea turtles drifting, unhurried, yet with contentment. Magnificent manta ray danced gracefully in front of my eyes— there was nothing to prove.

The noise of honking, chatter, and rush dissolved into a blue that asked nothing of me. I learned to move with the current instead of fighting it. In that stillness, I began to remember who I was when no one was watching.