Dwain Northey (Gen X)

One of the questions I’ve been asked most often throughout my life is, “What’s your favorite place you’ve ever lived?”

It sounds like a simple question, but I’ve never been able to answer it.

I’ve lived in multiple states, on military bases, in small towns, large cities, and even in other countries. Every place had something wonderful about it, and every place had something that drove me crazy. Washington was beautiful, green, and alive, but the gloomy weather could wear on you. Maryland had its own charm and the benefit of being close to the nation’s capital. Florida had beaches, sunshine, and theme parks. Milwaukee had incredible festivals and a culture all its own. Phoenix, despite its reputation, has a beauty that only makes sense once you’ve spent time in the desert. Germany was fascinating because history seemed to exist around every corner. England felt much the same way, where entire centuries of human history are simply part of the landscape.

So which one is my favorite?

I honestly don’t know.

Every place has its ups and downs. Every place leaves an imprint on you. Choosing one feels like asking which chapter of your life mattered most.

Maybe that’s why I’ve always struggled with a different question.

Where is home?

Is that a literal question or a figurative one?

For many people, home is easy to define. They grew up in the same town. They attended the same schools as their parents. They still know people they met in kindergarten. Their favorite sports teams are the local teams because those teams are woven into the fabric of their lives. They’re lifelong Packers fans because they grew up in Wisconsin. They’re lifelong Knicks fans because they grew up in New York. Their identity is tied to a place.

I don’t have that.

My experiences have been scattered across maps and time zones. I’ve lived too many places to claim any one of them completely. Sometimes I view that as a positive. I’ve seen different cultures, different ways of thinking, different landscapes, and different people. My world became much larger because of it.

Other times, it feels like a negative.

When you never stay anywhere long enough, you never develop that deep-rooted allegiance that some people have. You become a visitor everywhere and a native nowhere. You learn how to adapt, but you never quite learn how to belong.

Sometimes I wonder how much of that was set in motion by a single decision.

I was born in Georgia and then moved to Colorado, but if there was ever a place that might have become my hometown, it was probably Loveland, Colorado. That’s where my dad grew up. That’s where my grandparents lived. That’s where my uncle was. That’s where my aunt was. If there was a center of gravity for our family, that was it.

Then somewhere around 1979 or 1980, my dad made the decision to go back into the military.

I’ve often wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t.

Maybe Loveland would have been the only stop on the tour. Maybe I would have grown up with the same group of friends. Maybe I would be one of those people who can point to a spot on the map and say, “That’s home.”

Instead, we moved.

And after that, it seemed like the entire family ecosystem slowly began to change. My grandparents left Loveland. My uncle left Loveland. My aunt left Loveland. The family that had once been centered around one place gradually scattered in different directions.

Now, I don’t know that my dad’s decision caused any of that. Life is rarely that simple. People make their own choices for their own reasons. Maybe everyone would have left eventually anyway.

But looking back, it sometimes feels like that decision was the linchpin. One small choice that started a chain reaction that rippled through the entire family.

Not good. Not bad.

Just different.

Like a rock thrown into a pond, the ripples kept moving long after the splash.

Another thing I’ve noticed throughout my life is how differently people view moving.

Every time I’ve relocated, someone inevitably asks, “How could you move there? Do you know anyone?”

Or they’ll say, “I could never move somewhere if I didn’t have family there.”

To me, that’s always been a strange question.

Not because it’s wrong, but because my experience has been so different.

When you’ve spent your life moving, not knowing anyone is almost the default setting. New schools, new neighborhoods, new states, new countries—you arrive knowing nobody, and then you build a life. You make friends. You find your favorite restaurant. You learn the shortcuts. You discover the places that make that location uniquely yours.

I’ve never viewed a place as valuable because I already knew people there.

I’ve always assumed the people would come later.

Maybe that’s another consequence of a life spent moving. For some people, roots come first and adventure comes second.

For people like me, the adventure came first and the roots were always temporary.

The unknown has never been something to fear. It’s simply been where the next chapter begins.

At fifty-nine years old, though, I find myself asking the question of home more than ever.

My son is grown, married, and building his own life. My parents and brothers live far away from Arizona. I’m divorced. The house that once revolved around raising my son is quiet now. The room that once had purpose sits empty. The routines that defined so much of my life no longer exist.

People like to say, “Home is where you hang your hat.”

Others say, “Home is where the heart is.”

At this point in my life, neither answer feels entirely right.

If home is where I hang my hat, then I’ve had a lot of homes.

If home is where my heart is, then pieces of my heart are scattered across multiple states, multiple countries, and multiple decades.

Part of me envies people who can point to a single place and say, “That’s where I belong.”

But part of me also knows I wouldn’t trade the life I’ve lived.

I’ve seen things many people never get the opportunity to see. I’ve experienced different cultures, different perspectives, and different ways of living. I’ve learned that no place is perfect and no place is terrible. Every location is a mixture of beauty and frustration, opportunity and limitation.

Maybe that’s why I can never answer the question about my favorite place.

They’re all part of me.

Will Arizona remain where I hang my hat? I don’t know.

Will Phoenix be my final destination? I don’t know.

Could I move somewhere else entirely? That’s possible too.

The truth is that for the first time in my life, the answer is completely up in the air.

Maybe home isn’t a place at all.

Maybe home is simply the collection of experiences, people, and memories we carry with us. Maybe it’s the sum of every road we’ve traveled, every lesson we’ve learned, and every chapter we’ve survived.

Or maybe that’s just something people like me tell ourselves when we can no longer point to a single spot on a map and claim it as our own.

What I do know is that after a lifetime of moving from place to place, I’ve become very good at answering questions about geography.

It’s the question of home that still leaves me searching for an answer.