It’s Okay to Want Two Places at Once

In a few days, I’ll board a plane back to Toronto; a city that has held my entire life, my family, my friends, my go-to coffee spots, where live sports collide with food festivals and pedicures come with massage chairs and champagne!

These things I miss. Sometimes I even crave them.

But I’m already aching for the island I’m about to leave. The slow mornings. The sound of the waves. The familiar faces passing me by on their golf carts.

This is the tension no one talks about enough: The heart-stretching pull of being torn between two lives, two rhythms, two versions of home.

Two Homes, Two Loves

Toronto is my history. My people. My comfort. It’s where I know how to move without thinking. Where I know all the shortcuts, the late-night takeout spots, the luxury of clicking “Buy Now” and having Amazon deliver before I’ve even closed the laptop.

The island is my becoming. My growth. My newness. It’s where I’ve learned to slow down, to breathe deeper, to see myself outside of everything I thought I needed. It’s taught me that silence is not loneliness, and that joy doesn’t always look like champagne bubbles. It can be just as intoxicating in a $20 tank of gas that lasts for two weeks.

The Mental Tug-of-War

So I sit here, caught in the in-between, excited for tiny human hugs that feel like home, but already grieving the sun-soaked days and salty air that have only just started to claim me.

Here’s what I want you to know if you’ve ever felt this too: It’s okay. It’s okay to love more than one place, more than one rhythm, more than one version of life.

Missing your family doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to miss the island, too. Wanting the island doesn’t mean you love your people any less. This duality doesn’t make you confused, it makes you human.

The Lesson in the Pull

What I’ve learned is this: when your heart is stretched between two places, it’s really a sign that you’re living fully. You’ve allowed yourself to experience more than one kind of belonging. More than one definition of home.

It’s not betrayal, it’s expansion.

So yes, soon I’ll leave the place I’m building for the place that built me. And I’ll feel the ache of both. And that’s exactly as it should be.

Because maybe “home” isn’t one spot on the map. Maybe it’s not defined by an address, a postal code, or a place you can point to on Google.

Maybe “home” is wherever your heart and soul feel at rest. Where the air feels familiar, even if it’s brand new. Where you exhale deeper because something inside you says, yes, this belongs.

Home can be Sunday dinners with family and the laughter of friends you’ve had for decades. And home can also be a quiet stretch of beach where the sand holds your footprints. It can be conversations with strangers who become your people, or the morning ritual of walking with Gracie along the shoreline; her reminding me that belonging doesn’t always require permanence.

Home, I’m learning, is less about geography and more about connection. It’s the places, people, and moments that remind you of who you are, and who you’re becoming. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, it’s more than one place at once.