I hurry through the dimly lighted terminal after exiting the aircraft with only my blue Gregory rucksack in tow. The maintenance team at the airport is the only thing that can be seen as life. My welcome party is here. After spending a year traveling the world alone, I returned home a few days ago. In order to put things into perspective, over the period of (a little under) a year, I traveled to just under 50 nations on six continents. Up until now, I have only had one encounter with one member of my family during the previous year. This was a significant step in the right direction for someone like me who is incredibly close with her parents and siblings in my early twenties, having just graduated from college and wanting to break out and build a life for myself that is different from what I know. Despite the fact that I have just recently returned home, several people have already inquired about what it’s like “being back.” It makes my heart kind of sink, but I force a smile and say, “It’s amazing!” in a nice manner. But that isn’t the reason; it is excellent. Tasmania is among the most picturesque areas I have ever been, my family and friends are very kind and welcoming, and I can’t even begin to express how much I like my neighborhood burger joint. To be honest though, I doubt I would have returned home if it weren’t for the wedding of my older sibling. I’m certain I couldn’t have. This year, I had an unidentified transformation as a result of traveling to several continents throughout the world (when I can I promise to share my thoughts on this, too). But for some reason, at least in this moment, home doesn’t feel like home anymore.