Share a story about the furthest you’ve ever traveled from home.

The furthest I’ve ever traveled from home wasn’t measured in miles or airports. It wasn’t about crossing oceans or standing in a foreign land where the language felt unfamiliar. The furthest I’ve ever traveled was the moment I lost someone I loved deeply—my Aba.

For me, home was never just a building of bricks and walls. Home lived in laughter across the dinner table, in encouragement when I doubted myself, in the simple comfort of knowing someone always had my back. I spent 11,273 days with the home I can no longer go back to.

When that presence vanished, I felt myself in a strange, uncharted land. I was surrounded by the same streets, the same rooms, the same material things—but the anchor was gone. It was as if the coordinates of home had been erased.

I had to learn that home isn’t a permanent location. It’s fragile, woven from bonds and moments, and when a piece of that fabric tears, you find yourself traveling further away from “home” than you ever thought possible.

And yet, even in that distance, I began to discover something unexpected. Though I can’t return to the home that once was, I carry parts of it with me. In memories, in lessons passed down, in the love that lingers, home travels with me—even into the farthest places of loss.

-A grief struck daughter.

This is my digital footprint for you, Aba — a space where love never fades and memories never end.

Forever yours,

Sehru🤍