There is a particular restlessness that comes from not belonging to one place entirely.
It’s not dissatisfaction, exactly- more a gentle dislocation. A sense that parts of you exist elsewhere, scattered across cities, languages and moments that no longer belong to the present but still shape it. Living between places means learning how to carry yourself lightly, knowing that nothing is permanent- not even the version of yourself that feels most familiar.
Over time, you begin to notice how environments change you. How your pace adjusts without conscious effort. How your voice softens or sharpens. How the body responds before the mind does. Some places invite expansion, others restraint. Some teach you how to be alone, others how to be seen.
There’s a quiet adaptability that develops when you live this way. You learn what to keep close and what to let go of. You become attentive to detail- light through windows, the weight of fabric, the rhythm of unfamiliar streets. Home becomes less about geography and more about feeling. A sense of ease. A moment of alignment.
Style follows suit. When you live between places, dressing becomes instinctive rather than performative. You reach for what travels well- pieces that move with you, that hold their shape, that offer a sense of continuity when everything else shifts. Clothing becomes a form of grounding. A way to carry familiarity into the unknown.
Relationships, too, take on a different texture. Connections are often intense but fleeting, shaped by timing as much as intention. You learn to value presence over permanence. To recognize that some people are meant to meet you in a specific chapter, not the whole story. Though I find this concept extremely difficult to accept, there is a certain strength that follows once you have managed the acceptance thereof.
What’s rarely spoken about is the quiet strength this kind of life requires. To exist without fixed markers. To be comfortable with ambiguity. To trust that not knowing where you’ll land next doesn’t mean you’re lost- only that you’re still in motion.
Living between places teaches you that identity is not static. It’s responsive. It evolves as you do. And perhaps that’s the gift of it- the permission to remain unfinished, to keep becoming, without needing to arrive.
Some lives are rooted.
Others are shaped by movement.
Both are valid.
But only one teaches you how to carry home within yourself.
Solimeo Studio 
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